Endgame
by Moon Raven2
Summary: A woman from Gideon's past gets his endorsement for a spot on the team, with Hotch's deep reservations. Meanwhile, the Detroit PD receive a woman's severed leg in the mail. AU/OC/case-fic
1. Nowhere Else to Go

**Endgame**

* * *

**a/n**: if you read the summary, then you have some idea of what you're getting into. In this, my first Criminal Minds fic, I've decided to go the whole "a new chica joins the team" route. I've tried to avoid a lot of the cliches that come with that plot line, so give it a chance. :) She's not a freakin' Mary Sue, she's not a Super woman, and she only _thinks_ she can solve the case single-handedly.

This story takes place shortly after Elle's departure at the end of season 1. I've left out Prentiss altogether. I like Prentiss very much, but I can only handle so many characters at once, ja? It's AU for obvious reasons.

Oh, I'm not sure how long ago Gideon was involved with the CIA. If it was 20 years ago or something (making my character, like, FIVE when he was there...) then obviously that bit would fall into the AU part, too. ;)

Enjoy! And, if you do, or if you don't, review me!

**Disclaimer:** Not mine. Not one lil bit. Thanks for creating them and letting me play. :D

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**Chapter 1: Nowhere Else to Go**

**You cried for night; it falls: now cry in darkness  
**-Samuel Beckett

It was a deep, lonely night, deathly dark and icy cold. But one man - a hunter - strolling the back alleys didn't care: darkness was his home, his safety, his love and companion. The cold kept him sharp, kept him alive. Heat would only soften his senses and dull his keen mind as he slipped through the sleeping streets. She was there, somewhere, he just had to find her. Then as he rounded a corner, he saw her, a vision of light and beauty and young, coltish grace.

"Hey, sugah," she said in a heavy Southern accent unusual to Detroit, "you lookin' for a date?"

Tossing back a lock of long, teased blond hair, she sauntered up to him, hips swinging, and he grinned coldly. "Yeah, it just so happens that I am." He threw his arm around her and led her away from the glaring streetlights, across the street and back into the comforting darkness of the alley.

"Money first," she said sharply as his hand ran up her thigh.

He took a long, deep breath, enjoying the heady, cloying scents of cheap perfume, sweat and...fear. God how he loved the smell of fear! In a vicious motion, he turned her around and pressed her against the wall. Pulling something from his pocket, he ran it gently, lovingly up the side of her neck.

She whimpered and tried to wriggle away from his heavy grasp, but he only held on tighter. "I don't have any money," he told her, his breath hot and fierce in her ear. He pulled the knife across in her throat in a quick, hard motion and she let out a little gulp. "But I think that's the last thing on your mind right now."

Releasing the girl, he took a step back and watched the blood drain from the cut in her throat and gather in a pool all around her. In the darkness it was black, but in his mind's eye it was bright crimson, like rose petals.

"Goodnight, sweet princess. May flights of angels wing thee to thy rest." With a feral smile, he raised the knife again and set about his work with the precision of a careful, skilled butcher.

* * *

It was a quiet morning in Quantico, Virginia, specifically at the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit. The team members worked at their desks, tackling old paperwork, or, in one agent's case, a particularly challenging game of Solitaire. Supervisory Section Agent Jason Gideon was in his office updating his kill book, the journal he kept to record the victims of the cases the team worked.

Today was a good day, because today he got to add an entry to his "victory" list at the front of the book. These names belonged to the victims he had helped to save. He smiled as he added the new name, and he was still smiling when there was a knock on his office door.

"Come in," he called distractedly, assuming it was a member of his team, most likely Spencer looking for a game of chess. He would enjoy some chess right now, as a matter of fact. He looked up over the rim of his reading glasses, and his smile slowly faded as he absorbed the sight before him.

She was a petite, curvy brunette with remarkably clear glass green eyes and a heart-bruisingly lovely face. He knew those eyes, that face. Many might argue with his description: at first glance she was merely pretty, not breathtaking, with her slightly crooked nose; her full, just-barely top heavy mouth; her stubborn jaw; and those disconcertingly clear, penetrating eyes. But anyone who disagreed with his description had never seen her smile; it transformed her, gave her an indescribable incandescence, and it was that expression, not the current look of determined...something...desperation, maybe?...she was wearing that took her from _merely_ _pretty_ to _heart-bruising_.

He managed to tear himself away from his inner monologue to wonder. What the hell was she doing here, stepping casually into his office like...? He frowned and pulled off his reading glasses. "You shouldn't be here," he told her.

"You don't even know why I came," she replied with a raised brow.

"I don't need to know. You need to leave," he said shortly.

She frowned, and it made her look very young and vulnerable. "Gideon," she said softly, "please, at least hear me out."

He gave her a long, unblinking stare, his brow furrowed, but at last he sighed and gestured her in. "Close the door. I don't need the whole place hearing this."

"Do you have any idea why I'm here?" she asked him, settling into a chair across from his desk.

"I assume you're going to tell me."

She made an impatient gesture with a small, deceptively delicate-looking hand. "Could we tone this down a little, please? I didn't come to fight with you."

He rested both hands on his desk, fingers spread. "The last time I saw you--"

"You didn't even _ask_, Jason. You profiled me, didn't you? For them? Do you think I would be capable of something like that?"

He looked at her, eyebrows raised.

"Jason."

He dropped her gaze, shook his head. "No."

"Ok, then. Why didn't you--"

"No, I never profiled you," he corrected her.

She sat back, momentarily stunned. "You didn't? But I thought..."

"They didn't want me looking at you," he explained.

"Oh," she whispered, looking away, her eyes unfocused. She looked a little lost.

After a moment he sighed again and rubbed his face with his hands. Despite himself he felt a stir of pity for her. She looked so young. She _was_ young. And she reminded him in so many ways, always had, of Spencer - or really, he supposed, it was the other way around: Spencer reminded him of her. "Elliot," he began again, more gently, "why are you here?"

Dr. Elliot Jackson, the CIA's best kept secret (and, really, that's saying something), turned her clear, penetrating gaze onto Jason Gideon and shook her head slowly. "I'm sorry, Jason," she whispered. "I just didn't know where else to go."

Now it was his turn to sit back. "I think you need to start at the beginning, Jack. Tell me everything. Start with why every single agent at the CIA who knew anything about you was scared of you."

Jackson smoothed her already flawless black wool skirt to give herself something to do as she collected her thoughts. "They weren't afraid of me because I was a stone-cold killer, Gideon. They were scared of me because of this." She reached into her black leather briefcase and pulled out a thick file. She handed it across the desk to him with a small smile.

"Your file?" he asked, incredulous. "The real thing?"

"Yes. Do you have any idea how classified that thing is?"

"Why are you showing it to me?"

She shrugged. "Someone needs to know, Gideon. You think they were scared of me because I'm dangerous. They would have made me dangerous. I want to use what I can do for _good_, as corny as that sounds. I think I can do that here." She stood, her confidence restored again, and she looked more like the woman he remembered. "Read it. Call me if you think I might make a good addition to your team. I said I didn't know where else to go, and that's the truth. I can t be out there." She gestured out the window. "I'm not cut out for civilian life. But I can't be a killer for them, either; and that's what they were turning me into."

He rested a hand on the fat file in front of him. "What should I do when I'm finished with it?"

"Destroy it. I'm not exaggerating, Gideon; no one can see that."

Gideon nodded, appreciating the gravity of the situation. "I'll be in touch," he told her. He held out a hand, but then he pulled it back. "I'm sorry; I seem to remember that you don't like shaking hands."

Her mouth quirked in a little smile. "Soon you'll know why. 'Bye, Gideon; happy reading."

He watched her go with a bemused smile before flipping open the heavy folder and losing himself in one of the most fascinating, unbelievable stories he'd read in a very, very long time.

* * *

"So she's a spy?" Aaron Hotchner demanded hours later.

"A former spy," Gideon repeated patiently.

"A spy you knew when you worked for the CIA?"

"Yes."

"How old is this girl? Twenty?"

"She's twenty-five." He waved his hands in a dismissive gesture, making a face. "That's irrelevant. The fact is she's requested assignment to the BAU, and I think you should accept."

Hotch frowned at his mentor. "You do? Gideon, we can't just adopt any wayward orphan who comes along. Does she even have any behavioral training?"

"Aaron, listen to me. You know I usually let you make decisions like this, but in Dr. Jackson's case I'm making an exception. No, she has no formal behavioral training. I'll coach her. She has other skills that I think will make up for it until she learns the ropes."

"The ropes? Gideon, this isn't--"

"Aaron."

"She's not even in the FBI!"

"The CIA isn't very happy about it, but they're allowing her to work as a Special Liaison to the FBI assuming, of course, she gets permission from you."

"I would think Section Chief Strauss--"

Again Gideon waved that away. "Strauss is a politician. It's your word that matters, and Jackson knows that. It's why she came to me first, not Strauss. Aaron, trust me."

Though he had serious reservations, Hotch raised his hands in a gesture of defeat. "Alright, Gideon, you win. She's your responsibility, though. If she gets in the way, she's out. If she can't handle it, she's out. Ok?"

"You won't regret this, Hotch. I promise," Gideon assured him. Shaking his friend's hand, Gideon hurried from Hotch's office. As soon as he was alone he lifted his Palm Treo to his ear. "Jack," he said when she answered, "you're in."

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_short lil intro chapter there, kids. Lemme know what you think!_


	2. Pick a Number

**a/n**: Dear Readers, I ask you to please trust me. Don't be alarmed by what you read here, and please carry on to chapter 3 and beyond. :)

If you like what you're reading, please review me! I'm always open to any comments or suggestions you may have, and encouragement is helpful!

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**Chapter 2: Pick a Number**

**The human mind will not be confined to any limits.  
**- Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe

Jackson was nervous. Though she had more than earned an assignment she actually _chose_ for once, her superiors at the Agency weren't thrilled about it. They'd liked her quietly under their jurisdiction where they could keep an eye on her, tell her what to do, and otherwise control her every movement. Now, while she was still technically an agent of the CIA, this Special Liaison position gave a degree of autonomy she'd never had before.

So why the nerves? She should be excited, not nervous. She _was_ excited, of course. She was setting out on her own, starting something new...but what if she couldn't cut it? What if she washed out and had to go crawling back to the damn Agency with her tail between her legs?

No. That wasn't going to happen. Jackson had seen her share of Bad Shit. She knew the BAU wasn't going to be a cakewalk, but she had been trained by the best. And Gideon had read her file.

With a fortifying breath, Jackson stepped off the elevator and onto the BAU's floor. Gideon was there to meet her, and the contrast between this greeting and the one she'd received on her last visit was like night and day.

"Jack!" he called, striding toward her. "I'm so glad you're here." He started to offer his hand to shake, remembered her aversion, and smiled instead. "Perfect timing; we were just sitting down for a briefing. You can meet everyone at once and hit the ground running. This way."

"Thank you, Gideon, it's good to be here," she said as they walked, trying to hide her surprise at his enthusiasm. As they approached the conference room, she briefly touched his arm to stop him a moment. "Gideon, wait, I need to ask you..."

"Hmm?" he muttered, distracted.

"Have you told your team about me?"

"That you're coming? Hotch might have mentioned it."

She shook her head. "I don't mean that. I mean about..." She gestured toward her head.

His gaze suddenly focused as he caught on. "Oh. That. No." He frowned. "Jack. I won't have you reading my team."

She looked insulted. "My first and most important rule: never read anyone without his permission."

Gideon stared at her a moment, eyebrows raised.

"I'm serious!" she hissed in protest. "I wouldn't break that for them, and I won't break it for you, either. If you want your team to know about me, tell them. They obviously won't believe you, but it's easy to prove without being at all invasive. It's your call."

He mulled it over a few moments. "We'll see how it goes. Come on; they're waiting for us."

All talk in the room stopped when Gideon entered with his newest protege. Jackson hesitated in the doorway, trying not to fidget, and the older agent gestured impatiently for her to enter. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her, realizing with that simple gesture she had closed the door on her career with the Agency. Now she had to prove herself to the members of the BAU.

Hotchner nodded to Gideon, then to Jackson. "Dr. Jackson, welcome. I m SSA Aaron Hotchner. Please, come in."

Gideon had warned her that Agent Hotchner hadn't been thrilled by her appointment to his unit, but he seemed cordial enough. Jackson allowed herself to relax a fraction. "I'm pleased to be here, Agent Hotchner," she told him with that warm, face-transforming smile.

The other agents watched this small exchange with a combination of bemusement and fascination. Gideon seemed thrilled, like an excited kid at Christmas, but Hotch looked like he'd been browbeaten into accepting the new recruit. For her part, she looked nervous, but competent, in a knee-length charcoal, cream, and turquoise tweed skirt, knee high black leather boots, cream blouse, and charcoal jacket. Her light brown hair was worn in a sleek, chin-length bob, and the style suited the oval shape of a delicately featured face.

She also looked young. Very young.

"Well. Let's introduce you," Hotch said, trying to infuse some welcome into his voice. Gideon wanted her here; he d vouched for her. Hotch had made a career out of trusting Jason Gideon. "Everyone, this is Dr. Elliot Jackson. She'll be working with us from now on as a Special Liaison on semi-permanent loan from the CIA. Let's make her feel welcome, shall we? Dr. Jackson, my team. Agents Derek Morgan and Jennifer Jareau, Dr. Spencer Reid, and Technical Analyst Penelope Garcia."

Jackson shook hands with each of them, except Dr. Reid, and caught quick, instant flashes of brilliant, incisive minds that took her measure without even trying. She tried to smile and not feel intimidated. Maybe she _was_ in over her head. "Agent Gideon said there was to be a briefing. Let's not delay any further," she said, taking a seat at the long conference table.

Agent Jareau pointed a remote control at a projection screen and hit a button. Photos of an alley, bloodstained and dirty, began to appear, along with the mug shot of a girl much too young to be appearing in mug shots. "Our victim is Lacey Middleton, age eighteen. She was working as a prostitute two nights ago in Detroit, Michigan when apparently she was approached by our UnSub. He took her into this alley where he slit her throat, dismembered her, and removed several of her body parts. He left others wrapped in newspaper." She clicked a few more times, and pictures of neat, bloodstained bundles tied in butcher's twine appeared.

"Wait," Jackson spoke up.

"Yes, Dr. Jackson?" Hotch said a touch impatiently. "You have a question?" He glanced at Gideon, his thoughts written all over his face. The older agent made a gesture asking for patience.

"I know I'm new here, but this doesn't make sense. Don't most killers who do work like this; dismemberment, I mean; have a home base type situation? A pre-set kill site? Why would this guy rely on the privacy of an alley? Anyone could have discovered them. He could have been interrupted."

"New girl has a point," Morgan said. "He took the time to dismember her, wrap the pieces up nice and neat, take the parts he wanted and just stroll out, all in an alley. The former points to an organized killer, the latter to a very disorganized one. It doesn't make much sense."

"He would have to be very practiced," Reid spoke up. "An experienced hunter or butcher can break down a deer carcass very quickly, less than five or ten minutes."

"J.J.," Gideon said, "you said 'victim,' singular. Is she the only one? Why have they contacted us for one victim?"

"She's the first victim the Detroit P.D. has found intact...so to speak," J.J. explained.

"Intact? You call this intact?" Garcia demanded, face pale.

"The day Lacey's body was found, these packages were mailed to the Detroit authorities," J.J. said, displaying more pictures. The screen showed several shots of bloody newspaper bundles, each one carefully opened to reveal a body part.

"Oh God," Garcia whispered as she ducked her head.

"How many?" Hotch asked, brow furrowed.

"They've received only three actual pieces, but six different blood types have been found on newspapers displaying different dates."

"All working girls?" Gideon asked.

"So far," J.J. confirmed.

"No one cares about prostitutes alive or dead until they get mailed to you in pieces," Jackson murmured before she could stop herself.

"What?" Morgan barked.

Her clear green eyes widened as she realized her mistake. The thought had come directly from Morgan's mind. It was so damn hard to block here. Their brains worked too hard all the time. "Um. Well. It's true, isn't it?" she asked, trying to play it off.

Morgan relaxed, smiled. "Yeah, seems that way," he said, visibly deciding to attribute the incident to coincidence. Damn funny coincidence, but coincidence all the same.

"So clearly he's been at this a while," Gideon said, smoothing over the awkward moment.

"The earliest date on the newspapers is March 3, 2001," J.J confirmed.

"The public style of this one is clearly an escalation," Reid offered, frowning as he studied the pictures J.J. passed around. "And, look. You can see from these photos that the earlier victims were dismembered much more cleanly." He pointed at the ends of the severed limbs in the photographs. "He was in a hurry, very aware of his public surroundings with this new murder. It seems like he did have a kill site before."

"An eviction would certainly be cause for escalation," Jackson agreed, leaning closer to Reid to examine where he indicated.

"Um..." Reid stuttered a moment, distracted by the subtle, spicy perfume that wafted over him as her arm brushed his when she reached for one of the pictures. "Right. Eviction," he said, picking up the scattered threads of his thoughts. "Or the breakup of a relationship. A divorce, perhaps. He might have been kicked out of the house."

"These girls usually stick together for safety," Morgan said. "He would probably have been watching them for a while, waiting until one of them broke away from the others, or until he found one who spent a lot of time alone."

"We need to see those newspapers," Jackson said, squinting at the pictures. "We need to know all the dates, to see if he's speeding up."

"Bring a coat," Morgan advised. "It's gonna be cold in Michigan."

"Alright, everyone," Hotch said, rising to his feet, "wheels up in an hour."

As the team filed out, Hotch hung back a moment. "Dr. Jackson."

She stopped, readying her smile before she turned to him. "Agent Hotchner," she replied.

He studied her, struggling against the BAU's main rule: never profile your team. He wanted to understand this woman, why she was here, why Gideon had been so adamant about having her. After a moment he nodded. "You did well in there, Dr. Jackson."

Her smile suddenly became genuine. "Thank you, Agent Hotchner. I intend to earn my place here."

"Gideon told me you have no behavioral training."

"Not as you would understand it, no."

He frowned. "I'm not sure what that means."

She hesitated, considering. "The profiles you build are highly-educated guesswork. What I was trained to do is more concrete."

His look was skeptical, to say the least. "There's very little concrete about the human mind, Dr. Jackson."

"That's true," she agreed, conceding the point. "But..." Jackson shook her head, realizing she wasn't going to get anywhere with this man unless he understood more about her. Reaching behind them, she closed the door. "I'd like you to indulge me for a moment, Agent Hotchner. Think of a number. Any number."

"I don't think this is a time for games, Dr. Jackson. We have a case--"

"Agent Hotchner, please."

The lines around his mouth deepened in displeasure, but he nodded curtly. "Fine. Between one and ten?"

"No. That would be too easy. I said any number." A moment later she rattled off a number so long she had to draw breath in the middle of it, and he stared at her, blinking.

"Is this a joke? Is this Gideon's idea of a joke?"

"Are we laughing?" she asked rhetorically.

Hotch slowly sat in one of the conference room chairs and poured a glass of water. He took a careful sip and gave her a long, hard look over the rim of the glass. "This is why Gideon wanted you so badly."

"Yes."

"This is impossible."

"And yet you believe it so readily."

"I don't believe it."

"Yes, you do. Shall we do it again? Think of any word, in any language. If I can't pronounce it I'll write it down." Suddenly she laughed. "That isn't very nice, Agent Hotchner."

"What you said about the prostitutes in pieces..."

She fidgeted. "That was an accident. I've discovered several things over the years. One, it's much harder to block out the thoughts of extremely intelligent people. That's your entire team. I'm trying, of course, because it's rude to eavesdrop, but it's tricky. Tricky, too, because of another thing: strong emotion makes thoughts project further...louder...whatever. When Agent Morgan thought that, he was angry. Obviously. It came through like he'd spoke it aloud. I'm sorry; I'll try to be more discreet in the future."

Hotch suddenly looked thunderous. "I can't have you hearing the thoughts of my team. I don't know what the hell Gideon was thinking when he brought you on board, but there's no way--"

"Agent Hotchner, please, calm down. Don't you think the CIA trained me well? I'm not like some radio you left on sitting in the corner, constantly tuning in station after station. I can block people out. I don't like to shake hands because it's much harder to block when I touch someone. It's also harder to block when someone projects his thoughts, like Morgan did with that one today. Mostly, though, it's simple. I won't be invading your team's privacy."

Hotch absorbed this in silence, thinking it over. He took another sip of water and stared into the glass as though the clear liquid held the answers he sought. At last he looked up at her, his dark eyes hooded. "He wants you to read suspects."

"Yes. Crime scenes, too, probably."

That gave him pause, but only for a moment. "Did the CIA send you here?"

She laughed before she could stop it. "No. Not at all." She turned away, walked toward the wall of bookshelves and seemed to study the titles for a moment. "Imagine the implications of a gift like mine," she said, irony suffusing her voice. "The really exciting part is I don t just read minds; I can influence them, too, in small, subtle ways. You're feeling angry? I can make you angrier. You're feeling sad? I can make you sadder."

"I didn't want to be their weapon," she told him quietly. "I'm a human being. They wanted me to use my ability to hurt people, to get their information 'at all costs,' 'for the good of the country.'" She shook her head angrily, turning back to face him. "They didn't care what it cost me, or what it turned me into. I came here in the hopes that I could still use my abilities, but on my terms. I want to catch the bad guys, Agent Hotchner, but I don't want to become a bad guy doing it."

"Gideon knows all this?" he asked carefully.

"Yes. He's read my file. The real one, not the dummy version you've read."

Hotch let out a long sigh as he stood. "The rest of the team will need to know some of this eventually," he said.

"It would probably be helpful."

He nodded, adjusting his cuffs. "The plane takes off in an hour, Dr. Jackson. I expect to see you there."

She smiled. "Thank you, Agent Hotchner. And everyone at the Agency called me 'Jack.'"

He raised an eyebrow. "That's my son's name."

"Oh. Well. I can see how that might be awkward for you."

"Indeed. See you in an hour, Dr. Jackson."

It wasn't much of a victory, but it was a victory. She'd take what she could get.

* * *

_I know what you're thinking, but like I said: **trust me!!**_

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	3. It's Freakin' Cold in Detroit

**a/n**: chapter 3, my loves, and the plot thickens. In this chapter you'll see Jack use her ability about as much as she does in the entire story, so if you can handle it, you're home free. Like I said, she's not Super woman.

Thanks to jbOc for the kind review! I'd love to see some more. :)

Everybody neat and pretty? Then on with the show!

* * *

**Chapter 3: It's Freakin' Cold in Detroit**

**We are bits of stellar matter that got cold by accident, bits of a star gone wrong.  
**-Sir Arthur Eddington

Morgan had been right: it was freakin' cold in Detroit. Jackson pulled her dark turquoise wool coat around her more tightly and wished she were wearing a hat, like the locals. Maybe a scarf, too. The flight in the cushy FBI jet had been quick, and they had come straight from the airport to the crime scene. Now the BAU team, along with the Detroit P.D., stood near the entrance to the alley in a freezing wind and studied the surrounding area before stepping into the scene proper.

"We think he picked her up over there," Mike Jurczak, the lead detective, said, pointing to a well-lit corner just across the street. "It's a common corner for prostitutes, but no one works it regular. He brought her over here, into the alley." He started to walk that way, but Gideon stopped him.

"Not yet. Walk us through it first."

The detective looked a bit puzzled, but he nodded. "He pushed her against the wall, face first, and cut her throat from behind, left to right."

"A clean cut?" Hotch asked.

"Yep, no hesitation at all. Deep, too, almost decapitated her with that one slice. This guy knew what he was doing, and he wanted it done fast. It woulda been damn dark in there. This street is pretty deserted at night, but still he worked fast."

"He must have had a change of clothes with him," Jackson suggested.

"What makes you say that?" Gideon asked her.

She gave him an odd look. "He's going to approach a prostitute in a HAZMAT suit? He had to have been dressed normally or she wouldn't have gone with him, but he exited the alley immediately after killing and dismembering her. That's a bloody job. While I doubt he brought a full change, he probably had a new overcoat or at least a shirt; something he could quickly exchange for his bloody clothes."

The rest of the team nodded agreement. "He probably had a bag with him, something in which he could carry the parts he took away," Reid said. "He could easily have stashed the bloody clothes in there along with the packages."

Gideon smiled at the detective. "I think we're ready to see the alley now."

"Right this way. We estimate the time of death at around three night before last. We got the packages in the first mail run yesterday. That's when I contacted Agent Jareau." He pointed to a spot along the brick wall marked with arterial blood spray, then at a dark, dried puddle on the ground. "He cut her throat there, then she fell here."

Gideon nodded, studying the spray pattern. "Jack," he said quietly.

Looking a bit pale, she stepped forward to join him, standing almost exactly where Lacey Middleton had stood with her killer. She swallowed. "_Hamlet_?" she muttered, brow creasing as she frowned.

"I'm sorry?" Detective Jurczak asked.

"Er. How soon can we see the newspapers that came with the body parts, Detective?" she asked.

"As soon as we're done here, Dr. Jackson. I thought you wanted to see the scene first?"

"Yes." Her eyes, a green the shade of glass, scanned the dingy alley with care.

"He never stabbed her," Morgan observed. "He slit her throat, watched her bleed out, and then immediately began the dismemberment." He knelt by the black, dried pool, his well-made face scrunched in a scowl of concentration as he studied the blood patterns and began working out the sequence of events.

"Is that significant?" the detective wanted to know.

"With sexual sadists, stabbing is a substitute for the sex act," Reid explained. "He can't perform sexually, so he stabs his victims instead. The fact that he's preying on prostitutes points to sexual frustration, but the lack of thrusting stab wounds is strange. There doesn't appear to be any sadism involved here; he killed her very quickly, and all the mutilation occurred post-mortem."

"In other words, this guy is all over the map," Morgan summarized.

"And it looks more and more like his motive isn't sexual," Hotch added.

"I thought these guys were all about sex, impotent rage and all that, like the kid said," Jurczak said with a gesture in Reid's direction.

"Many are," Reid told him, "but not all. This UnSub is probably motivated more by a need to dominate his victims than a need for sexual satisfaction."

"Jack, are you done here?" Gideon asked.

"Yes. There's nothing else to see."

Reid and Morgan, rising, shared a glance, confused, but said nothing.

"Alright. Reid, Jackson, go back to the station with Detective Jurczak and J.J. Get started on the newspapers, and keep Garcia in the loop. Morgan, Gideon, let's start canvassing. We need to talk to some of the girls around here; they might have seen the UnSub hanging around before he chose Lacey," Hotch ordered.

The team split up, and Reid and Jackson joined J.J. in one of the large, black SUVs reserved for their use. "Wow," Jackson observed, "between that plane and these cars, our carbon footprint must be impressive."

J.J. grinned. "All in the name of catching the bad guys."

"Hey, so, are you a medical doctor, or...?" Reid asked, leaning forward from the backseat.

"What?" Jackson asked, blinking. "Oh. No. Like you, I've devoted a lot of energy to getting a few letters after my name," she said wryly.

He smiled. "Psychology?"

"No."

It had seemed a safe bet. "Sociology?"

"You won't guess," she told him.

He frowned. "I bet I can."

"Oh really? Care to make it interesting?"

"She seems pretty confident, Spence," J.J. cautioned with a laugh.

"How about this? If you can answer the question correctly by the time we've solved this case, I'll buy you lunch every day for a week. If not, you'll do the same for me. Deal?" Jackson proposed, looking over her shoulder at him with a raised brow.

His frown deepened, light brows drawing together over deep-set hazel eyes shaded brown by the hue of his coat. "You didn't spend large amounts of time dissecting earthworms, did you?"

"No earthworms were harmed during the course of my higher education," she assured him. "And no peeking at my file!"

"Maybe this isn't such a good idea," he hedged, jaw working and eyes darting as he considered all the possible outcomes of the proposed bet. At her look, he held up his hands. "Ok, you're on. I'll know by the time this case is over."

"It's a bet," she agreed, grinning. He didn't, she noticed, offer to seal their bet with a handshake like so many people would have done. It was the second time he had decline to shake hands in a social situation that called for it. Food for thought, she reflected, turning around in her seat again.

They rode in silence for a short time, until Reid said, "You seem really fixated on those newspapers. I admit it'll be helpful to know if his kills are speeding up, but other than that..."

Jackson glanced at his reflection in the rearview mirror. "You're good with patterns, aren't you?" she asked.

"Ye-es," he answered slowly, wondering.

"I'll need you to look for any common occurrences among those newspapers, no matter how trivial they may seem. He could have chosen plain butcher paper; he picked newspapers for a reason. He included the dates for a reason. And I think he's subtle enough that the dates aren't the only reason. Look carefully; there's a lot of important information on those papers."

"Is that what you did for the CIA? Codes, patterns?"

Her generous mouth curved. "No. And we're not making a bet about that."

* * *

Morgan and Hotch walked the cold Detroit streets, chatting with witnesses and waiting for the few surrounding shops to open. The air was bitter, the sidewalks gray, and Morgan felt like he would never be warm again. Something about this case...the sight of those neat, impersonal little packages...that pool of blood in that nasty, forgotten alley. The pretty little blond girl in J.J.'s picture hadn't deserved such an end. No one did.

He thrust his hands deeper into the pockets of his well-tailored wool trench coat and gave Hotch a look from the corner of his chocolate brown eyes. "So...new girl," he began, keeping his voice deceptively casual.

"She has a name, Morgan," Hotch replied steadily.

"Right. I guess she's here to replace Elle?"

"If it works out."

Morgan considered, scanning the street with a furrowed brow as his mind worked. "What was going on back at the scene? Why is Gideon so set on having her here? Special Liaison from the CIA? Hotch, that's fuckin' weird."

Hotch let out a slow breath and turned to face his agent, his dark eyes hooded by even darker brows. "There are things about Dr. Jackson that only Gideon knows. He believes she'll be an excellent addition to the team. I have reservations, which I've discussed with both Gideon and Dr. Jackson."

"She's smart," Morgan conceded after a moment. "Reminds me a bit of the kid. That why Gideon's so hot on her?"

Hotch almost smiled. "I don't think 'hot on her' is an accurate description, but I'm sure it's part of his reasoning."

"I think we're dead-ending here," Morgan said, switching back to the case. "No one was around last night. No one saw a damn thing. It's too early for any of the girls to be out yet, or too late."

"Morgan," Hotch said, "you don't have to like her. I'm not sure I like her. You just have to work with her, at least for now. Her methods will probably seem unorthodox, but remember she's coming from a completely different background than any of us."

Morgan raised a skeptical brow so high it almost disappeared beneath the knit cap protecting his smoothly shaved head from the elements. "It sounds like you're on her side. I thought you had 'reservations.'"

He sighed again, turning away. "I do. But I made a deal with Gideon, and I'm not going to back out on it. If she does her job and doesn't flake out, she's in. So far I can't complain on that score, can I?"

"No," Morgan allowed grudgingly.

"Elle made her choice. Maybe Dr. Jackson is her replacement, maybe not, but that fact remains. Elle's gone, and she's not coming back."

Morgan wrestled with it a few moments longer, the muscle in his jaw twitching. At last he nodded. "Yeah. I guess we'll just see."

"That's all I ask. Now can we focus on the case, please?"

* * *

Detective Jurczak set a brown evidence box on the folding table in front of them and shook his sandy head. "What a damn mess," he said. Then, sighing, "It's all here. They've all been tested for prints, and all the blood's been sampled. We've ID'd six different blood types, but so far we've only gotten hits on a couple."

"Thank you, Detective," J.J. said. "We'll let you know if we find anything."

Jackson began distributing the sheets of newsprint. Each one had been carefully flattened and placed in protective plastic, eliminating the need to wear gloves. She hated those stupid gloves. Jackson picked one at random, examining it closely, while Reid chose the most recent.

"What are we looking for?" J.J. asked, studying her own sheet.

"I don't know," Jackson admitted.

"Guys," Reid interrupted, "I think I just found it."

The two women looked up, each wearing an identical frown. "That was fast, even for you," J.J. told him, her pretty face set in delicate lines of disbelief.

"Jack," Reid said, ignoring J.J. and easily slipping into the nickname Gideon used, "at the scene you said something about _Hamlet_. Why?"

"Um...why do you ask?" she deflected.

"Look," he told her, pointing to a prominent ad in the newspaper that had been used to wrap Lacey Middleton's left leg.

"_Hamlet_," Jackson whispered. "Closing night was the night of the murder. Detective," she called, "where is this theatre? Is it near the scene?"

He joined them and stared down at the ad, frowning. "Yeah, like three or four blocks over. Do you think this is significant?"

She shook her head. "I don't know yet. Grab a sheet and search it. Now we know what to look for."

It didn't take long. Every paper featured an ad for a theatre production, and each production had its closing night the same date on the newspaper - the date of a murder.

"So he's an actor," Detective Jurczak concluded.

"Not necessarily," Reid contradicted, his brow creased in concentration as he plotted the theatre locations on a map. "He could be a tech, an usher, a critic, or just an avid theatre-goer."

"'Avid' would be accurate," Jackson remarked. "These shows run the gambit from community theatre to Broadway quality touring companies. We have everything from _A Chorus Line_ to _Waiting for Godot_." She wrinkled her nose. "Beckett. If I were going to kill someone after taking in a little Theatre of the Absurd, it'd be myself."

J.J. tried to smother a laugh, her dark blue eyes dancing. "Not a fan, I take it?"

Jackson shrugged. "Maybe I m just not smart enough."

"Now that's a scary thought."

"You weren't a theatre major, were you?" Reid asked, barely looking up from his map and list of addresses.

"I'll start picking restaurants."

"I put my money on you," J.J. told her.

"Safe bet," she said smugly.

"Look at this," Reid said, indicating the map. "All the previous locations have been in the northwestern quadrant of the city, but the most recent site is down here, on the southeast side."

"He was forced to relocate," Jackson said. "That fits the theory. It would explain the escalation."

"His relocation can't be very recent, though; he knew where in this part of the city to find a prostitute in an area that wasn't highly trafficked," Reid pointed out.

Jackson shook her head. "He might have visited this part of town before, just not to kill. BTK frequently visited prostitutes he didn't kill."

"How long was the run of _Hamlet_?" J.J. asked.

"Three weeks," Reid told her without consulting the ad.

"Ok, so if he was involved with the production he had been visiting this part of town for at least nine weeks or so for rehearsals."

"Good point. But if he is an actor - which I doubt, actually, since these ads include national touring companies - why is he suddenly working so far from home? That's a long commute."

"I vote fan," Reid said. "A critic would have already been visiting theatres all over the city. An actor or technician wouldn't be working such a wide range of productions. A theatre fan might stick to theatres in his neighborhood, and only venture outside of it if he had been forced to move."

"I agree," Jackson said.

Reid sat back in his chair, clicking his pen and frowning in concentration. "We should call Gideon. I think we're ready for the profile."

* * *

_Some of you may have observed, as Morgan did, that my character and Reid are really similar in a lot of ways. I assure you it's a funny coincidence. I actually created the character Elliot Jackson about 7 or 8 years ago for another story I was writing, and when I starting thinking of ideas for Criminal Minds fic, she kept popping into my head as someone who would fit into the team quite well. Strange, but true._

_I have this story completely written, but I'm still making edits, tweaks, etc, so the review process will definitely have an influence... if I get any reviews... kind readers. :)  
_


	4. Obsessions and Confessions

**a/n**: I'm making revisions and changes on each chapter as I post it, fleshing things out and hopefully making it all a bit better. Let me know if you're enjoying what you're reading! It's much appreciated, and it'll help keep me going. :)

Thanks to DarkQuoter, non-Criminal Minds fan, for enjoying my story anyway.

If you like anything you're reading here, hop over and check out my one-shot Reid-centric angst-fest (that's a lot of hyphens) "Just Breathe."

* * *

**Chapter 4: Obsessions and Confessions  
**

**The secret thoughts of a man run over all things, holy, profane, clean, obscene, grave, and light, without shame or blame.  
**-Thomas Hobbes

"Reid, Jack, what've you got for us?" Gideon asked as the rest of the team joined them around the table at the Detroit police station.

"We found evidence confirming the relocation theory," Jackson told him. She showed them the ads in each newspaper, and Reid pointed out the plots on the map.

"Good work. Let's present the profile," Hotch said shortly. If it irritated him that her ability had helped discover this lead, he didn't show it. If she'd earned any sort of respect in his eyes, he didn't show that, either. He played his cards close to the vest, and Jackson tried not to let it bother her.

J.J. gathered the task force, and they all assembled, somber faced and attentive, to hear the BAU's findings.

"Good afternoon, everyone. For those of you who don't know, I'm SSA Aaron Hotchner with the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit. Detective Jurczak called my team and me in to consult on the Middleton case. We're going to give you a profile of the person you're looking for, and hopefully we'll catch him before he kills again."

Gideon stepped forward, rubbing his hands as he often did when thinking deeply. "We believe the UnSub you're looking for is a white male between the ages of thirty-five and forty. He probably recently suffered the end of a long-term relationship, most likely a divorce, and maybe a job loss.

"This man will be well-liked and respected by his friends and former neighbors. He's the type who, when we catch him, no one who knows him will be able to believe it. He might be deeply involved in a volunteer organization, perhaps a church, but that might have ended with the divorce that forced his relocation."

"His life is falling apart around him," Jackson continued where Gideon left off. "His wife kicked him out, he lost his job, his health may be failing – everything is going wrong at once. That's why he's suddenly decided to go public after years of killing completely undetected."

"He stalks his victims before he kills them so that he can take them when they're alone," Morgan said. "He might have been observed walking the streets in his old neighborhood, or his presence may have been noticed in his new one. Talk to the girls. He might pick up girls fairly often without killing them. It's more than likely they know this guy, and that some of them even like him."

"He appears to enjoy the theatre. I've plotted the location of all the theatres featured in the newspaper ads on this map. Concentrate your canvassing to within this triangle," Reid told them.

"Any questions?" Hotch asked.

"Our theory is he kills these girls on closing nights of the plays, right?" Jurczak asked.

"That's a working theory, yes. We've asked our tech at Quantico to get us a list of all theatrical productions currently running in the Detroit metro area. It's probably going to be a big list, but it might give us some idea of when he'll strike next," Gideon explained.

"Can't we narrow them down geographically, like the canvass?" another detective wanted to know.

"We can't be one-hundred percent sure that the location of Lacey's murder is his new home base. He killed her in an alley, so obviously he doesn't have a new kill site. He might stick to this area, or he might follow the shows," Jackson said.

"Thank you, everyone," Hotch said. "Let's go catch this guy." The cops scattered, but the team remained, waiting for Hotch's orders.

"I've got the list from Garcia," J.J. said. "It's pretty big."

"Is there any way to narrow it down?" Hotch asked, scanning it with a furrowed brow.

"What Jack said was right, but geographically is still our best bet. He seems to enjoy all genres equally," Gideon said.

"Alright. If our guy is as much of a fan as we think, then he'd buy his closing night tickets in advance, don't you think?" Morgan asked.

Hotch nodded. "Ask Garcia if she can get ticket lists for as many of the murder nights as she can. Have her cross-reference them for overlapping names. Jackson, a moment?"

As they stepped away, Reid moved to the Crime Board to tack up his map. Morgan closed his phone, ending the conversation with Garcia, and the two men examined the board in silence for a moment.

"Weird at the scene, huh?" Morgan finally said.

"Yep," Reid agreed.

"More to it than anyone's tellin' us."

"Oh yeah. Hey, do you have any idea what she has her Ph.D. in?"

"Who, Jackson? No. English Lit, maybe," the handsome black man said with a grin. He smacked the smaller, thinner man on the back hard enough to make his eyes water. "Keep at it, kid; I put my money on you."

"Any ideas?" Gideon asked as he joined them.

"Nothing new," Reid admitted. "You've read Jackson's file. What's her Ph.D.?"

He smiled inscrutably. "J.J. told me about your bet. That would be cheating, Reid. I will tell you she has three."

"What? Three Ph.D.s??"

Morgan laughed. "Another genius. Looks like you've got some competition, kid!"

"Gideon, Reid," a voice said, and they all turned guiltily to face the mystery doctor in question. She smiled, her clear green eyes brightening. "Garcia found a name for us. Hotch wants us to go talk to him."

"That was fast," Reid said.

"In Garcia's words, 'time is meaningless for the Goddess of Information,'" Jackson replied drolly. "Agent Hotchner told her bully for her, but time means a lot to us since _Sunday in the Park with George_ is closing tonight at a theatre five blocks from where Lacey was killed."

"Let's go," Gideon said.

"He actually _said_ 'bully for her'?" Reid demanded, trailing behind.

* * *

"Garcia says Lloyd Henry has been residing at his current address for six months," Reid told them in the car on the way there. "The location fits the geographic profile."

"It just seems too easy," Jackson complained.

"He's been killing completely undetected since at least 2001, and suddenly he gives us the information we need to go straight to him in less than two days. It does seem strange," Gideon admitted. "He might not be our guy."

"Chemistry?" Reid interjected suddenly.

"What would make you say that?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Chemists always complain when things are too easy."

Glass-green eyes sparkled as she grinned. "I guess you would know. No, not chemistry. Keep trying, Dr. Reid."

His expressive, finely-featured face screwed itself into something closely resembling a scowl.

"I have faith in you, Spencer," Gideon assured him. "But you should know that the pool is against you three to one now."

"That's all? I would've thought the odds would be higher," Jackson said with a wicked grin.

"I have excellent problem-solving skills," Reid countered dryly.

"We're here," Gideon said before she could reply. He parked the black SUV in front of a low brick building, and the three agents hurried inside.

"Gideon," Jackson said quietly, "remember what we discussed this morning. Rule number one."

He gave her a long, steady look through intense dark eyes. "I would never ask you to compromise your principles, Jack." He knocked on the door, and a few moments later a tall, good-looking man in his early forties answered. Lloyd Henry looked like the type of guy you'd take home to mom: neat, dark hair, smiling blue eyes, carefully chosen clothing.

"Mr. Henry?" Gideon asked. "I'm SSA Jason Gideon, and these are my associates Dr. Spencer Reid and Dr. Elliot Jackson. We're with the FBI. May we ask you a few questions?"

The man frowned, a tiny crease forming in his smooth forehead. "I'm sorry; may I see some identification, please?"

All three agents produced their credentials, and once he had inspected them to his satisfaction, he nodded reluctantly and let them in. "How can I help you? What is this about? I've never had the FBI knock on my door before!"

Gideon smiled thinly. "Mr. Henry, are you aware that there was a murder a few blocks from here two nights ago?"

The crease deepened. "I believe I heard something about that, yes. Terrible thing; it was a young girl, wasn't it? Something about...dismemberment." He shuddered. "Horrible."

Reid wandered off as Gideon spoke to the man, and he noticed a theatre ticket tacked to a bulletin board. "_Sunday in the Park with George_," he said. "You're going tonight?"

"Oh yes. I hear Dot is excellent. I wouldn't miss it."

Gideon's brows rose. "Sondheim musicals; not everyone's a fan. Is that one your favorite?"

"No, no, that would be _Gypsy_," he said, looking confused. Why would the FBI care about his favorite Sondheim musical?

"I like _Sweeney Todd_," Jackson offered.

"Your favorite Sondheim musical is about a serial killer?" Reid asked.

She shrugged. "I like the music. All those driving minor chords. And who writes a musical about serial killers? It's different."

Gideon blinked, then turned back to Henry, steering the conversation to more relevant territory. Reid wandered toward Jackson and leaned close. "Music?" he muttered.

"Keep at it, boy genius. You'll get there eventually," she said softly, cutting her glass green eyes over at him.

He shook his head and wandered away again.

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Henry," Gideon was saying. "We're just checking with everyone in the vicinity, making sure they didn't see anything suspicious last night."

"I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help. I hope you catch him."

"So do we, sir," Reid assured him. "Just one more thing…did you happen to catch the recent run of _Hamlet_ nearby?"

He looked a little startled, then abruptly dismissive. "Shakespeare's tragedies are a bit preachy for my taste. I prefer the comedies."

"Ok," Gideon said. "Sorry to bother you." He offered his hand, and Henry shook it quickly, and then did the same with Jackson.

"Nice boots," he told her, holding her hand a little longer than was strictly necessary as he examined her footwear.

Jackson smiled. "Thanks. They're new." She managed to extricate her hand, Reid offered a small, slightly awkward wave, and the agents departed.

Once back in the SUV, Gideon met her eyes in the rearview mirror. "I don't think so," she said.

"Why not?"

She frowned, fidgeting with the sash of her coat. "He was casting us."

"Casting us?" Gideon asked, raising his brows.

"Yes. _My Fair Lady_. You were Henry Higgins, of course, and I was Eliza Doolittle. He thought Reid would be perfect as Freddy."

"Um," Reid began, but Gideon wagged his hand in the air, silencing the younger agent.

"You're kidding," Gideon said to Jackson.

"No. But I think it was just a cover. He was trying desperately not to think of something."

"The murders?"

"Yes, but more specifically…Lacey. I think he knew her. There was guilt there, but…" She shook her head.

"What?" he demanded.

"I sensed nothing predatory in him, Gideon." She took a long breath and let it out slowly. "I didn't read him. I told you I wouldn't. Everything I saw was right on the surface. He held my hand so long I could've gotten his life story."

"He did hold onto your hand much longer than Gideon's," Reid observed, though he sound a little putout at not understanding a word of their conversation. "He seemed to be appraising you."

"Mm," she agreed mildly. "There was a lot going on in his head. You," she said, indicating Gideon with a tilt of her head, "he thought were sexy in an older, intense sort of way. Perfect for Higgins. He thought you," she said with a nod at Reid, "were young, a little skinny, but cute. A believable Freddy."

"And you?" Gideon asked with a trace of amusement.

She shrugged. "He liked my boots. He's got good taste; they are nice boots." As both men glanced at her in the rearview mirror, she couldn't repress a smile. "Ok, I guess maybe he was right about you guys, too." Her smile faded as quickly as it had come, and her eyes drifted to the window, though her gaze wasn't focused on the sites streaming past. "I saw some real creeps at the Agency, but if this guy can chop a girl into pieces one night and casually cast the all-Bureau production of _My Fair Lady_ the next as though it never happened…" She shuddered.

"This is a whole new world, kiddo," Gideon said gently.

"Yes," she agreed in a soft little voice. Silence fell in the large car, until finally Reid couldn't take it anymore.

"Could one of you please tell me what the hell is going on here?" he demanded.

Gideon met her eyes in the mirror, raising his eyebrows eloquently. _Yours to tell_, his look said. She nodded just a little, and he was full of confidence in her.

"I'm a mind reader, Spencer," she said bluntly. "That's my big secret. Suddenly my majors don't seem as important anymore, huh?"

He blinked owlishly. "That's not possible. The human brain—"

"Is an incredibly mysterious and powerful organism," Gideon interrupted. "We've barely begun to understand it. We don't know what causes depression, psychosis, autism…or telepathy. Look at the things your brain is capable of, things that many people would say are impossible. It's true, Reid."

"But...how...you..._Hamlet_...?" he stammered. His stunned mind was racing, analyzing, processing, recalling everything he had ever read, learned, or heard about psychics. Most of it was bunk, quack science that meant nothing, and he had a hard time accepting that the man he respected most in the world was calmly and rationally telling him that Elliot Jackson was a mind reader.

"Ah. Well." She grimaced. "Sometimes I can read places, too. Not objects. But sometimes people leave a stamp on a place, and I can pick up small snatches of information. It fascinated the Agency, and they were trying to develop that ability further. Very useful, you understand."

"I'm not sure I understand any of this," he admitted ruefully. He rubbed his forehead, considering. Except, of course, he was the off-the-charts genius son of a schizophrenic mother. He profiled the dregs of humanity for a living. If anyone understood how unfathomable the human brain could be, surely it was Dr. Spencer Reid, boy genius.

She smiled at his reflection in the mirror. "It's ok. I don't plan to use my ability as a substitute for old fashioned behavioral analysis or detective work; after all, you can't arrest someone based on something I picked up in his head."

"Having said that, why don't we go talk to some witnesses? You said he knew Lacey; let's find out if any of the working girls around here have seen him hanging around," Gideon suggested. "Reid, get on the phone with Hotch. Tell him what we learned at Henry's, and get him to meet us down there with the rest of the team. We'll split up and cover as much ground as we can. We'll need pictures of both Henry and Lacey."

Reid blinked, still reeling from Jackson's announcement, and nodded once Gideon's words began to filter through. "Right. Hotch. Calling."

* * *

_Ok, I guess I lied: Jack uses her ability the most in this chapter, just not, ya know, _well_._

_Ah, Sondheim. Why Sondheim? One, so I could reference _Sweeney Todd_. It is a bit weird that her favorite Sondheim musical is about a serial killer_._ Two, Mandy Patinkin originated the role of George in _Sunday in the Park_ on Broadway. That tickles me._

_Is the story tickling you? Tell me about it! Please. Lack of reviews is giving me heavy boots. :(  
_


	5. A Good Theory

**a/n**: truckin' right along here, my loves. I still only have the two reviews, which I really appreciate, but I'd love a few more. :) Additions to favorite story/story notification lists are great, but I'd love to hear (read) from your own lips (fingers) that you enjoy/why you enjoy the story!

* * *

**Chapter 5: A Good Theory  
**

**Everyone is like a moon, and has a dark side which he never shows to anybody.  
**-Mark Twain

The team gathered on the cold street, and Gideon divided them into pairs. Hotch and Morgan went one direction, J.J. and Gideon another, and Jackson and Reid yet another. Each pair was armed with pictures of Lloyd Henry and Lacey Middleton. Reid and Jackson flashed their pictures to several groups loitering on the street despite the bitter, chill wind, but they came up empty. They worked in circles moving around the theatre and the crime scene, and as the afternoon wore on, the streets got busier.

It was a bit awkward between them, and Jackson could sense without reading him that Reid was uncomfortable around her since the reveal earlier. She decided to clear the air. "I can control it, you know," she told him as they walked away from yet another group of witnesses who had witnesses nothing.

"I...um. I guessed that much, from what you were telling Gideon," he said, picking up the thread of conversation instantly, but refusing to look at her. He kept his head down, his eyes examining the sidewalk as though the dirty concrete might reveal the answers to Lacey's murder.

"What I mean is I'm not reading you now. I don't just listen in. I wouldn't." She frowned, brushed her hair out of her face as the wind caught it. "I mean your thoughts are safe around me. Private."

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, finally looking up, though still not at her. "It's really true, isn't it?" He scanned the milling people, his eyes working and his face scrunched in concentration as he studiously avoided her gaze.

"I...yes, it's really true. Is your mind blown?"

"A little," he admitted, burrowing his hands deeper into his coat pockets. They had paused on the sidewalk, two still figures in the middle of a busy street. He turned to her at last, giving her a long, searching look from his intense, deep-set hazel eyes. "It's ironic, isn't it?" he mused after a moment.

"I'm sorry?"

He shook his head, smiling wistfully. "We all just want someone to understand us, to _get_ us, and you do it effortlessly. It's what you're made to do. You're the person everyone dreams of meeting. Yet when people find that out about you, they're scared to death."

Her mouth fell open a bit in surprise, but she recovered quickly, her full lips curving in a smile. "Be careful what you wish for, I guess," she said lightly, trying to play off how deeply his words had affected her.

"I guess so."

They stood another few moments until someone bumped against her, knocking her off balance and into him. He reached out, catching her, and she caught an accidental glimpse into his mind that made her blush.

As Reid grabbed her arm to keep her from falling, he saw her cheeks redden. Remembering something she'd said to Gideon in the car, he let go abruptly, his own face suddenly going hot. "Um. I like the way your hair smells?" he offered like a question, wincing a little at how lame he sounded.

Jackson smiled, hating her stupid ability but trying not to show it. "Thanks. I kinda like it, too. Hey, have we talked to them?" she asked, pointing to a group of women gathered nearby.

Grateful for her tact, he shook his head. "No, I don't think so. Let's go."

As they approached, the women all turned toward them, some looking at Jackson with hostility, others regarding Reid with interest. "Hey, cutie," one said to him, "first one's free!"

"Ladies, a moment of your time?" Jackson asked.

"_He_ can have a moment of my time!" another one said, laughing.

Reid sighed, thrusting his hands back into his pockets, and Jackson gave him a sidelong glance. "As fascinating as my colleague is, let's focus a minute. I was wondering if you ladies have seen this man around here lately." She held up a picture of Lloyd Henry, and a few of the girls nodded.

"Yeah, that Lloyd," one of the girls said, tossing her long braids. "He come around some, though not so much in the last few days."

"Have you seen him with this girl at all?" Reid asked, showing them Lacey's picture.

"Yeah," another girl said. "He was one of Lacey's regulars. He would go with me some before he met her. I was real disappointed when he decided to go with Lacey only."

"Why's that?" Reid asked.

"He was sweet," the girl explained. "Just straight sex, no rough stuff or anything. Sometimes he, ya know, had trouble? Some guys - _most_ guys - get mean when that happens, but not him."

"What would he do?" Jackson wanted to know.

The girl shrugged. "He would cry. He said it was his fault, not mine."

"Didn't he buy Lacey that coat?" another girl spoke up.

"Coat?" Reid said. They hadn't found any of Lacey's clothes, of course, so this was of particular interest.

"Yeah," the talkative girl said. "It was real nice. I don't mean fancy or like expensive, just _nice_. Warm. She said he gave it to her because he was worried she'd be cold. Can you believe that? From a _john_? Most a john ever gave me was a cheap gold locket. What good is that shit?"

Jackson nodded in commiseration. "Men," she said ruefully. "What's your name?" she asked.

"Tanya. Don t tell the cops, ok?"

"Tanya, I'm Elliot. Your secret's safe with me. Thank you, Tanya, ladies," Jackson told them. "You've all been very helpful."

"Try to stay warm," Reid said as they turned to go.

"You could keep me warm, baby!" the first girl called after them as they walked away.

Jackson's laughter burst out as soon as they were clear of the group. "What was that?!" she demanded.

He shrugged, mouth quirking. "Apparently I'm 'fascinating.'"

She cut her jade-green eyes at him, fighting a grin. "That's the word on the street, anyway."

"Jack, Reid, anything?" Gideon called as they approached the rest of the team.

"Actually, yes." Reid filled them in on what they had learned, and he looked to Jackson for confirmation, but she wasn't paying attention. Her gaze was riveted on the surrounding crowd, her eyes searching the faces around them, scanning the loiterers and general riffraff.

"Henry fits the profile," Hotch was saying, "and he knew the victim. He could easily be our UnSub."

"Did Garcia get anywhere on the _Hamlet_ thing?" Reid asked.

Morgan shook his head. "The theatre doesn't use computers for their ticketing system, and they've already thrown away everything from the other night. Garcia was personally offended, I think. We have no way of knowing if Henry was there or not."

"What if our profile is wrong?" Jackson suddenly said.

"What?" Hotch demanded, astounded.

She was still staring out at the crowd, but her brow was creased in concentration, and her words came slowly, as though she were considering each one carefully before saying it. "What if we're wrong? What if..." She trailed off, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth.

"Go on, Jack," Gideon encouraged quietly.

She sighed in frustration, turning at last to face them. "He gave her a coat. Not some useless piece of crap or some expensive statement gift, but a warm, practical coat. I think he actually cared about her. A man who cares doesn't slit a girl's throat, chop her into pieces, and then leave those pieces wrapped up like so many cuts of meat."

The more experienced team members looked at each other, mulling it over. At last Morgan nodded. "She makes a good point. The two don't really go together: I'm going to give you a considerate gift that shows I care about your well-being, and then I'm going to treat you like an object and display no remorse about it."

"Henry visited Lacey regularly. I'm sure he probably visited other girls in his old neighborhood the same way. So let's say just for argument's sake that he would pick up a girl, become her regular, and then she would disappear. This pattern continued over the past several years. He finally starts to clue in that the common denominator is him," she said.

Reid nodded slowly, frowning. "He decides to relocate, hoping his stalker won t follow him."

"He didn't move far," Morgan pointed out.

"He has a young son," Hotch, the only parent in the group, reminded them. Garcia had unearthed Henry's entire family history earlier in the day, and he was indeed recently divorced with a five-year-old son. "He wouldn't want to move too far away from his child."

"So he just goes across town. He still probably thinks it's a coincidence; I mean, prostitutes are a high-risk group, and the UnSub wasn't mailing body parts around before now," Jackson said.

"The UnSub was forced to follow Henry, the object of his obsession. That led to the escalation," Reid continued.

"He's angry. He decided to expose himself or, really, Henry, since all the evidence the UnSub sent us led us to create a profile that points to Henry," Jackson said. "He stalks Henry, sees the girls who come to matter to him, and kills them on the closing nights. Henry loves his closing nights." She studied their faces, wondering what they thought of her theory. She longed to read them, but she didn't. Watching, she waited patiently for one of them to speak.

The silence seemed to last forever.

At last Hotch rubbed his forehead, letting out a long sigh. "Damn it. Bring Henry in. I want to know the last time he saw Lacey Middleton and anything else he didn't tell us."

"Agent Hotchner--" Jackson began.

"It's a solid theory, Dr. Jackson," he interrupted. "Now let's prove it."

* * *

"I don't understand," Lloyd Henry was saying as the team observed him through the window in the Detroit P.D.'s homicide unit. "Why am I here? I talked to the FBI this afternoon; I told them I didn't know anything about the girl's murder. I'm going to miss curtain!"

Hotch frowned, crossing his arms over his chest. "He seems more concerned about missing his play than anything else."

"The closing nights are his routine," Reid said. "In a world out of control, he feels safe at the plays. He can lose himself in the fantasy. We're disrupting him."

"We might be disrupting his murder routine, too," Morgan said, his dark brows drawn together over his handsome features.

"The murder we saw was committed by someone with a lot of rage," Gideon said. "Being kept from it would only increase his fury. Let's leave him for a while and see what happens."

As an hour, then two, passed, Henry became more agitated, checking his watch, adjusting his tie, rubbing his brow. Curtain came and went, and he looked like he wanted to weep.

Jackson watched him, shaking her head. "There's no rage here. He's upset, but not angry. Look at him," she said, her voice going soft with compassion. He sat slumped in his chair, head in hands, looking utterly miserable.

Gideon sighed, rubbing his hands. "Ok. Let's go talk to him. Hotch, Jack, you're with me. Reid, stay in here. Keep an eye on his body language. Let me know if you see anything telling that we miss."

The three agents filed into the small room. Gideon sat across the table from Henry with Hotch standing over Gideon's shoulder, while Jackson stood behind the nervous, upset Henry. Gideon smiled reassuringly. "Mr. Henry. I'm sorry for the inconvenience. We needed to ask you a few more questions."

"I'm missing _Sunday in the Park_," he said in a small, sad voice.

"I know. Again, I'm sorry." He opened a file and placed the mug shot of Lacey Middleton on the table between them. Henry wasn't able to suppress a flinch at the sight of the young, hopeless face.

"You told us you didn't know her, Mr. Henry," Jackson said softly.

Henry didn't turn, instead choosing to look at her reflection in the mirror across from them. "She's a prostitute," he explained. "I mean, she _was_. I didn't want...I have a son. If my ex-wife found out...I can't lose visitation. I love my son."

"I have a son, too, Mr. Henry," Hotch told him. "I understand how far you would go to protect him."

Henry looked up eagerly, sensing an ally. "Yes," he said, nodding, "I'd do anything. Ethan - my son - is the world to me. I'd do anything for him."

"Including kill?" Gideon asked.

The man blinked, taken aback. "I...what? Do you think I...?" He stopped, took a deep breath, and visibly pulled himself together. "I would never hurt Lacey," he said in a steadier voice. "I know it sounds improbable, but I cared for her."

"She's not the first prostitute you've cared for, is she?" Jackson asked, stepping forward and sliding three more pictures across the table. "Katherine Marino, Janet Dorsey, and Elizabeth Jennings. Did you care for these girls, too?"

"Oh God," he whispered, raising shaking hands to cover his eyes. "I didn't...I would never...Did the same thing happen to them as happened to Lacey?"

Hotch raised a cynical brow. "You should know, Mr. Henry."

"No! Listen. Ok, listen. I do know these girls. Or, I mean, I did know them, but they moved or something."

"Moved?" Gideon asked. "They were all prostitutes, Mr. Henry. That's not a lifestyle known for its upward mobility."

He took another deep, gulping breath. "Could I have some water? Do you think I could have a glass of water?" Jackson stepped away to pour it for him, and when she handed him the cup he took a long, deep drink. "I thought...I hoped they moved. I prayed they maybe went home. Katie sometimes said she wanted to go home, that she missed her family. I hoped she did."

"But you didn't believe that," Jackson prompted gently.

"No. No, I didn't."

"Tell us, Mr. Henry," Gideon said.

He took another long pull from the Styrofoam cup. "A few years ago my wife decided she wanted to have a baby. I wanted one, too, but..." He glanced over his shoulder at Jackson, embarrassed.

"It's alright, Mr. Henry. We spoke to Tanya."

"Ah. Well." He cleared his throat and turned back to the men. "Anyway. My wife and I were having problems, so I started visiting prostitutes. I felt like I could take care of them. I would start seeing a girl regularly, and I would buy her things...nothing flashy, just nice things like a coat or some shoes for her kid. It made me feel like I was helping someone, and it helped my, er, problem."

"When did the girls start disappearing?" Gideon asked.

"Allison was the first," he said, staring down at the table. "That was in spring of '01. It was only a few months before my son was born. I thought maybe it was for the best, she moved away or started working another part of town, and now I could focus on my family."

"But you didn't stop seeing the prostitutes," Jackson said.

"No. I couldn't. I tried, after Ethan was born. I thought it would be enough. But I still felt empty. My wife hates the theatre. Can you believe that? But with the girls, I could talk about anything, and they just listened."

"You were paying them to listen," Hotch said a trifle impatiently.

"You think I don't know that?" Henry cried, finally looking up. "I know how pathetic it is. I know I should have gone home to my wife and my son and been happy, but I couldn't. I tried."

"Ok," Jackson said soothingly. "Let's focus. We know there are at least seven victims. Is that right?"

Henry frowned, thinking. "Yes, seven. Lacey makes seven." He looked up, meeting her eyes in the mirror. "They were all like Lacey? In pieces?" His face was pale, and he was sweating.

She nodded. "Yes, though Lacey's is the only body we've recovered. Mr. Henry, this is very important. We need to know of anyone who might have a reason to hurt you. The man we're looking for is obsessed with you. He's killing these women because they were involved with you. Is there anyone you know who might have that kind of grudge?"

"If someone was that angry at me, why didn't he just hurt me? These women were innocent; they didn't deserve anything like this. I never thought..." He trailed off miserably, shaking his head.

"He sees your involvement with these women as salt on the wound," Gideon explained. "Whatever you did that set him against you in the first place is made that much worse by your seeing the prostitutes."

"Could it be someone who knows your wife? A friend or a member of her family? Someone who would see your affairs as a personal betrayal of her?" Hotch asked.

Henry blinked, confounded. "My wife has a brother, but he faints when someone gets a paper cut. I can't imagine he d be capable of doing something like this."

"Do you know of anyone in you or your wife's past?" Jackson asked. "He was probably always a loner, prone to fits of rage, inappropriate outbursts and obsessive behavior. He might have been an avid hunter or maybe worked as a butcher."

"No, I..." He broke off abruptly, and his face transformed.

"What is it, Mr. Henry?" Gideon said.

"My wife was engaged before we met," he said quietly. "I don't know much about him, except I know she finally broke it off with him because he went nuts on her once. He beat her up so badly she had to be hospitalized."

Gideon pulled out his phone and slid it across the table. "Call your wife, Mr. Henry. We're going to need his name."

* * *

_Aww, poor Lloyd: he missed George and Dot and their adventures in the park. That's ok: _Sunday in the Park_ kinda bored me silly._

_Enjoying what you're reading, or bored silly? Let me know!_


	6. A Poacher with a Temper

**a/n**: Wow, thanks so much to **I Philosoraptor** for your kind review(s)!! I'm so glad you're enjoying the story, and that you like Elliot. I tried to make her a likable sorta gal. :D

Just a quick warning: This is not my favorite chapter in the story. In fact, it's my least favorite. Just get through it and move on, because after this, things get much, much better. :)

* * *

**Chapter 6: A Poacher with a Temper  
**

**Rage cannot be hidden, it can only be dissembled. This dissembling deludes the thoughtless, and strengthens rage...  
**-James Baldwin

"All hail the Queen of Information! Grovel before her greatness and might!" Penelope Garcia sing-songed over the speakerphone less than fifteen minutes later.

"Give us what you got, baby girl," Morgan said, grinning broadly.

"Joshua Brady, forty-three, served six months just before the Henrys were married for...guess!"

"Aggravated assault," Reid offered.

"A big _no_ to the boy genius in the front row. Better! Deer poaching out of season."

"Penelope Garcia," Morgan said, "you tell dirty, dirty lies."

"I caaan," she replied in a teasing purr, "but the second 'dirty' costs extra. Strangely, that's the only charge that ever stuck. He's been arrested on assault charges a couple of times, once with a deadly weapon, but the charges were always dismissed. I guess that's why the judge threw the book at him on the poaching thing."

"Deer poaching," Jackson mused, drumming her nails against the tabletop. "Do you have a current address?"

"Do I ever!" She rattled off a Detroit address and a current phone number before signing off with the team's thanks.

"A poacher with a temper," Morgan said.

"You don't think Brady isn't the type more likely to just come after Henry directly? This all seems very elaborate for a poacher with a temper," Jackson observed, flipping through the information Garcia had sent them.

"It's your theory, Jack," Gideon reminded her.

"Exactly. I want to be right this time."

"Look at this," Hotch said suddenly, pointing out a line in Brady's file. "He was arrested in '02 for assault; the victim was a prostitute."

"He threatened her with a knife," Reid read. "He kept asking if she were one of 'Lloyd's girls.'" He looked up, hazel eyes wide with discovery. "The charges were dropped when the woman didn't show up to testify. Guys, her name was Janet Dorsey."

"They had him," Jackson said, stunned. "He killed Janet before she could testify, but they had him!"

"We have to get this son of a bitch off the street before he realizes we're on to him," Morgan said. "If he figures out we know Henry isn't the UnSub, shit'll hit the fan."

"Get protection on Henry, and let's go after Brady hard," Hotch said, rising from the table and checking his holstered weapon out of long-ingrained habit.

Reid was studying the map, shaking his head. "I don't think he's still at that address. Look: it's in the old area. He's moved since then."

"It's what we've got for now," Gideon said. "Let's move."

* * *

Reid was right, of course: Brady's place was empty, cleaned out. The team, first through the door, holstered their weapons in frustration as the sweep of the small space proved clean. "He followed Henry," Reid said, managing to keep the "I told you so" out of his voice.

"There's no way he killed those women here," Morgan said, frowning. "The walls are thin; anyone would have heard."

"Anything?" Gideon asked Jackson, studying her with intense dark eyes and a furrowed brow.

She slowly shook her head, short brown hair swinging. "No. I don't think so." She rubbed the back of her neck warily and closed her eyes a moment, trying to concentrate. "I'm sorry. I'm tired; it's very muddled."

He shrugged a little, smiling. "It's ok. We'll just do it the old fashioned way."

Morgan watched this exchange incredulously, but when neither Hotch nor Reid seemed perturbed, he merely snorted in disgust, shook his head, and walked away.

"Dr. Jackson, come with me. Let's go do a quick canvass of the neighbors," Hotch told her.

She nodded, trying not to let his continuing formality irk her. "Lead on, Agent Hotchner," she replied. If he noticed the irony in her tone, nothing in his face gave it away. He would make one hell of a poker player.

As they walked the hall, knocking on door after door to no avail, Hotch eyed her. "I take it Reid knows?" he finally said.

"Yes. After we interviewed Henry the first time. I haven't said anything to anyone else."

They spoke to a woman who vaguely remembered "the young man from down the hall." She could offer little detail, and she never remembered him bringing home any girlfriends.

"We would have made the connection about the theatre ads and the dates. Reid's very good at that sort of thing," Hotch told her, opening the door to the building's stairs and gesturing her in.

"I know," she replied steadily as they climbed.

"Having said that, you're better at this than I expected. I apologize if I judged you too harshly before. Maybe Gideon was right about you." His voice was even, almost expressionless, but Jackson understood that was just his way.

She stopped and turned to him, her face solemn. "I truly hope I can prove Agent Gideon's faith in me to be well-placed, Agent Hotchner."

"Hotch," he replied.

She raised a brow.

"My team calls me Hotch," he told her, the barest hint of a smile lifting a corner of his mouth.

Her face transformed as she smiled back. "Hotch. Well now I feel much bet--" She broke off abruptly, and as suddenly as the smile had come it was gone, replaced by a deep, thoughtful frown. "Wait a minute," she muttered, looking down the hall one way, then the other.

"Jackson?" he called after her as she took off down the hall, running for the stairs. "Jackson, what's going on?"

She took the stairs more quickly than he would have thought possible for someone so short wearing heels and a skirt. "There's something wrong with the doors," she told him over her shoulder. "I'm not sure..." Her next words were lost as she disappeared into the second floor hallway.

Jackson's sudden appearance in the small apartment startled everyone, especially when combined with her babbling. "I think there's an extra room here," she was trying to explain. "The doors don't add up. There are too many upstairs. Just come with me, ok? We can look at the windows." She grabbed Reid's arm, tugging insistently, and he followed her, his face scrunched in confusion.

"Look," she explained more carefully as they descended to the first floor. "Hotch and I canvassed this floor, and there were fifteen doors. Upstairs there are sixteen."

"There could just be a two bedroom on the second floor and not on the third," Reid reasoned.

"Yes, hence the windows." They stopped on the sidewalk across from the building and she gestured upwards. "Count them; you're faster than me. Are they the same on every floor?"

He stared up at the building, trying not to notice that she hadn't let go of his arm, and did a quick count. Frowning, he shook his head and counted again. "I don't understand. How did nobody notice a random bricked-up window?"

She pointed up and over, and his eyes followed her finger until they were both gazing at the square of bricks. "It's not a very good neighborhood," she said quietly. "Windows get broken. Better it's replaced with brick than plywood, I suppose?"

The rest of the team had joined them by this time, and they were all staring up at the blank wall. "Son of a bitch," Morgan swore.

"Get on the horn to Garcia. I want blueprints to this building. I want into that room as quickly as possible, and I want to do as little damage as possible getting in," Gideon said.

It hardly took any time at all, and they quickly discovered that once-upon-a-time the two apartments had been connected. Brady had carefully sealed the hall door and the window, soundproofed the space, hid the door in his own apartment, and created the perfect kill chamber.

The space was divided in two. The room they walked into from Brady's apartment was where he had done the killing. It was spotlessly clean, but empty of any weapons.

"He took his tools with him when he cleared out," Gideon said, walking the room slowly, rubbing his hands.

Hotch opened a cabinet. "Twine and regular butcher paper. It looks like he didn't _just_ use newspaper."

Jackson stood in the center of the room, her face pale, the skin tight over her high cheekbones. Reid watched her in concern, remembering what she'd said about certain places absorbing emotion. If the alley had absorbed something from Lacey's murder, then this place must be a rattrap of pain from six other women's sufferings.

"Jack," Gideon prompted gently, apparently thinking thoughts similar to Reid's.

She started, turning toward the older agent, but before she could say anything, Detective Jurczak emerged from the other room. "Agents, you're gonna wanna see this," he said tilting his head in a "come here" gesture.

They followed the lanky, sandy-haired detective into the small space, and Jackson couldn't stifle her gasp. "Jiminy Cricket," she muttered, wide-eyed.

Reid managed to turn his attention from the room long enough to blink at her. "Did you just say 'Jiminy Cricket'...?"

Her only reply was to raise a brow in his direction before stepping through the doorway. "He's got copies of each paper he sent us," she said, studying the sheets tacked to every inch of the walls.

"Plus some," Reid confirmed, joining her. "I guess from the other...pieces?"

"Yes," she agreed. "And, look, I think those are the originals. Oh, for pity's..." She turned away, momentarily overcome.

"Elliot?" Gideon said. "If you need to step out, it's perfectly alright."

"I just need a minute," she told him. She closed her eyes, blocking out the sight of the bloodstained headlines, and tried to breathe. She would not walk out of this room; it was a matter of pride.

"She's right," Morgan confirmed as he studied the newspapers, realizing he'd been saying that a lot lately. "There're blood stains on some of these sheets. They must be the originals he used to wrap the body parts. The others are copies; he sent the P.D. the originals of those."

Opening her eyes, Jackson was about to turn back to the rest of the team when something on the wall opposite caught her attention. Narrowing glass-green eyes, she stepped closer, tilting her head to better study the ad so prominently displayed. "He didn't send us this one," she said, pulling a latex glove out of her pocket and carefully lifting the sheet away from the wall.

Hotch cast a quick glance over his shoulder at her, his expression impassive. "He didn't send all of them. Morgan just said--"

"No," she interrupted. "He sent the _ads_. The ads were what mattered. He didn't send this one. Henry said there were seven victims, counting Lacey. So...?"

Frowning, Reid moved to stand with her. "_Endgame_ by Samuel Beckett. Like chess?"

"Yes," she said distractedly. "Sort of. _Fin de partie_ in the original French, and there's no direct translation. The French title can refer to games other than chess; though Beckett was an avid chess player, he was never really content with the English translation."

Morgan let out a low whistle. "Now we've got two of them," he said to no one in particular. "Maybe he collected the paper but didn't kill a girl that night? Maybe Henry didn't go see the play after all?"

"Check the dates," Gideon said.

"There's no date on the paper, strangely enough," Reid told him.

"He means the dates of the _play_," Hotch said, stepping forward and pulling the ad off the wall. "It's running this week. Closing night is tomorrow."

"Doesn't make sense," Morgan said. "Henry doesn't have a girl right now. Brady killed Lacey."

"Maybe he just likes to keep track of the shows around town, to help keep tabs on Henry," Gideon offered, frowning thoughtfully.

"Maybe," Jackson and Reid both said as though they didn't really think so.

Morgan cocked a brow in Gideon's direction. "Are you kidding me with the Wonder Twins here?"

"Cool," Jackson said with a sudden grin. "I'd look good in purple spandex."

Blinking away the instant mental image her words conjured, Reid shook his head. "No way. The guy Wonder Twin always turned into lame stuff like a sponge or a bucket of water," he complained.

"Actually, Zan can transform into water in any form, including a hurricane or a blizzard, or, in later versions, an ice golem," Jackson told him.

"Or a bucket of water," Morgan stressed.

"Yes. Though Gleek usually provided the bucket." She shrugged. "Guess you'll just have to avoid the really lame forms, like Ice Cube of Doom," she said to Reid, green eyes glinting.

"Ice Cube of Doom?" he repeated incredulously.

"It takes practice to reach the rank of ice golem," she replied gravely.

Hotch cleared his throat. "Could we focus? If Henry has a ticket to _Endgame_ then it gives us a chance of getting Brady. Let's let the CSU team get in here, and we'll come back tomorrow to analyze the clippings he left. We're all exhausted, and we're not going to accomplish much more tonight. Get some rest; meet back at the station at eight tomorrow morning."

* * *

_Here's a problem I discovered while writing Criminal Minds fanfic: it's hard to get good "hours of the day" continuity, because you have the show in your mind. There's no real moment when they say, "Now is the time when we sleep. Let's meet again in the morning" as Hotch just did. I kind of had to force myself to make them go to bed. Everyone has to sleep, and I needed a break from the constant investigating. Holy Hannah; see, I wrote that...then watched "Cradle to Grave" and Hotch said that very thing. :shaking my fist a la Stephen Colbert: HOTCHNER!!  
_

_Please drop me a review; they give me warm fuzzies. :)  
_

* * *


	7. A Better Theory

**a/n**: I went ahead and published this chapter pretty quickly because Chapter 6 wasn't my favorite. From here on out it gets really good, I promise. :) I dunno, maybe I'm a smidge biased...

This chapter is pretty long, and even though I edited a chunk out altogether, I couldn't make this particular chapter much shorter.

Let me know what you think with a review, please. :)

* * *

**A Better Theory**

**Man approaches the unattainable truth through a succession of errors.  
**- Aldous Huxley

Hotch had ordered them to get some rest, and while Reid was certain he'd meant _sleep_, sleep wasn't an option that night. Reid felt too restless, too keyed-up. He sensed they were on the verge of a breakthrough in the case, or else on the verge of making a colossal mistake...

He sighed, shaking his head. They'd been muddled on this thing from the beginning. The UnSub was leading them around by the nose, and they were constantly one step behind. At least it seemed like, for the present, no women were in danger. Henry knew Brady was stalking him and killing the women he visited, so he was staying away from them.

Reid rose from the rumpled bed where he'd been tossing and turning for the past few hours. He stared out the hotel window for a few fruitless minutes. He paced. He eyed his laptop, wondering if he could get some work done on his philosophy paper.

Philosophy. He hadn't guessed philosophy in his running bet with Jackson. He also hadn't proposed Morgan's thought of English Lit. or some variation thereof. She certainly knew her theatre, spouting off those facts about Beckett...

Reid stopped pacing. He blinked. Beckett. _Endgame_. Frowning in concentration, he booted up his laptop. As he waited for it to finish flashing logos at him, he pondered. _Endgame_ was the only unused ad posted in that room. If Brady had just been keeping track of "coming attractions," as Gideon had suggested, why only one? Why not a collection of ads that resembled Garcia's list?

He pulled up Google and typed in his search quarry. To his happy surprise, a full-text version of the play was the third hit. It was a one-act, Reid saw, and he wondered that it was being featured alone. Weren't one-acts usually clustered together, like a "night of theatre" or some such? Not really his area...

Reading the text was a matter of a few seconds, and as he reached the end his frown deepened. Starting at the beginning he read it all again, and though several things began to fall into place, he suddenly had a lot more questions. He glanced at his phone, noting the hour, and grumbled in frustration. It was too late to call Jackson; she knew this play well, from the sound of things, and he needed someone to bounce ideas off of, but it was after two in the morning.

He flipped open the phone anyway, but then realized with a start that he didn't know her number. How odd. She'd been a part of the team less than twenty-four hours, and he didn't even have her contact number, but her name was the first that had popped into his head. Reid ran a slender hand through his short brown curls, tugging a little, and the slight pain brought him back to reality. She was smart, and she knew Beckett. End of story. He drummed his fingertips against the desk and rose, pacing again. His thoughts spiraled around and around, going nowhere, and he was about to give up in frustration when there was a knock on his door.

At two in the morning?

Hastily pulling on some pants, he went to answer it. He wasn't all that surprised to see Elliot Jackson at his door, dressed in well-worn jeans and a Better Than Ezra T-shirt, her hands thrust into her pockets and her expression hesitant. Her feet were bare, he noticed, and it made her seem, as Gideon had observed, very young and vulnerable.

"Um. So. It's way late," she began.

"I wasn't asleep," he assured her. "Something up?"

"I was hoping you'd be awake. Sleep sucks. I never do it. I was really busy not sleeping when it occurred to me - why _Endgame_?"

Reid blinked down at her. "Can you read minds over long distances?"

She looked startled. "There generally has to be proximity. Why?"

He gestured for her to follow him into his room and turned the laptop so she could see the screen. She leaned forward, reading the text, then let out a small laugh. "Well. Great minds and all that." She straightened, pushing her hair back from her face, and smiled. "Any thoughts?"

"This play is weird. I mean, brilliant. But weird."

Her smile widened. "Yes. You read it?" She shuddered at his affirmative nod. "The only thing worse than sitting through a Beckett play is reading one. All the pauses. You'd think it wouldn't matter, but it does. It so, so does."

He shrugged it off. "It's short. It only took a second."

She stared at him a moment before comprehension dawned. "Oh, right, the speed-reading thing." Her laugh rippled out again, low and quiet. "You're almost as much of a freak as me, aren't you?"

"Um." His hazel eyes, shaded gray by the T-shirt he was wearing, flicked to the laptop, then back to her.

Jackson wrinkled her nose, realizing her faux pas. "I'm sorry. That came out wrong. I just meant..." She looked away, chewing her lower lip and fidgeting with a hotel pen she'd grabbed off the desk. "I've always been different. Special. Whatever." She waved it away impatiently. "This sounds sort of cheesy, but it's just nice to meet someone who understands what it's like. You know..." She made an encompassing gesture.

Reid did know. He'd said it before: he understood what it was like to be afraid of your own mind. He had always been different, like she said; special; whatever. He enjoyed it, mostly, but sometimes it was just a pain in the ass. "Is it true you have three Ph.D.s?" he asked abruptly.

Again he got the wide-eyed blink before she caught up. "Er, no. I have two. Who told you three? I'm working on my third, but I'm not there yet. I'm just a smarter-than-average kid with a lot of extra time, not a super-genius like _some_ people."

"You know, it's not really fair that you've seen my file but I can't read yours."

"My file is so classified God can't even read it," she told him, only half joking.

"Hmmm," he replied mildly.

"Indeed. Anyway. I call myself a freak because it makes it hurt less when other people think it. I don't need to be a mind reader to know it's there; anyone can see it. You know the look."

He nodded, his finely-made features twisting in wry acknowledgment. "I do. I guess in that case you can call me a freak, too. I'd be honored to be a member of your club."

"A freak club. Is that like a sideshow or something?"

"A speed-reading, mind-reading sideshow?"

Jackson laughed, making a face. "A sideshow with a bunch of reading? That sounds very boring, and very, very nerdy."

"Nail on the head," he confirmed, grinning.

She returned his smile without thinking, enjoying the way it brightened his normally pensive face. He kept himself so closed, hiding behind his giant brain and his innate detachment, but underneath he was a warm, endearing person. She liked that - the layers - and she wondered what else he kept hidden. Shaking her head a little, she turned her gaze back to the small computer. "Um, we should probably get back to it."

"Right," he agreed, sobering. "So I was reading the play, and a few things stuck out. The main relationship is the codependent master/servant dynamic between Hamm and Clov. I keep coming back to it."

"Mmhhmm," she agreed, nodding. "They despise each other, but neither can leave. Clov won't walk out even though he threatens to many times."

"Hamm tells him to go, orders him to go, but every time he starts to leave, Hamm calls him back. In the end, when he's finally, really going...he comes back." His voice rose as his excitement mounted, and he scrolled through the play quickly, pointing out key moments in the text.

"Yes," she said, eyes narrowing in thought. "And Hamm won't leave, either. He wants to die, but he won't commit suicide. He hates everything about living, but he doesn't have the courage to end it."

"'It's time it ended, yet I hesitate,'" he quoted from memory.

"Exactly. There are critics who compare those lines to Hamlet's 'to be or not to be' soliloquy." She frowned. "_Hamlet_ again. Henry said he didn't go see it; why the hell would he lie?" A shake of her head, then, "Do you have a copy of the list of shows Garcia put together for us?"

"Um, yeah, somewhere..." He searched through his brown messenger bag for a few moments before emerging with the list. He scanned the entire page in almost a single glance and shook his head. "It's not here. Jack, _Endgame_ isn't on this list."

She sank down in the desk chair, staring at the computer screen as though the answer would suddenly materialize out of the ether. "How could so many smart people be so stupid? Or is it just me?" She shook her head, pushing her hair back with both hands in frustration. "I thought I was so clever, figuring it all out..."

"None of us figured this, Jack," he said quietly. "Nothing pointed to two UnSubs, and Henry's remorse was genuine."

She drummed her nails on the desktop in an unconscious imitation of Reid's earlier gesture. "Ok, so, how involved is Henry? And why this _Endgame_ thing? What's that all about?"

"Ah, well," Reid said, tilting his head in consideration, "good questions. We can get Garcia to trace who took out this ad. I bet it'll be Henry. Endgame: the final moves in a game of chess that lead to the king's capture. Checkmate."

"Is he Hamm or Clov?"

"Afraid to die or afraid to leave...'If I could kill him I'd die happy,' Clov says of Hamm."

She eyed him. "It's a little creepy how you can do that, given that you've read this thing once in your entire life."

"Twice, actually. Besides, tell me what I'm thinking right now and we'll talk about creepy," he replied, mouth quirking.

She smiled back in appreciation. "Touché. So is Henry communicating with his partner or luring his adversary?"

"That's the question, isn't it?"

* * *

Bright and early the next morning Hotch and Jackson found themselves in a silent, tense ride to the theatre where _Endgame_ wasn't actually playing. Reid had presented the theory they'd hammered out last night to the team at the police station mere moments before, and they all agreed Garcia never would have overlooked a show when putting the list together. Hotch had split them up, sending Gideon and Reid back to Brady's, J.J. and Morgan to Henry's, and the two of them to the theatre. Jackson was sure he'd paired the team up like this so that he could chide her for her careless arrogance earlier in the case. She'd dismissed Henry as a suspect, and now it looked like he was probably a second UnSub.

As though he were the mind reader rather than she, Hotch broke the silence with an echo of her thoughts. "Do you and Reid think Henry is a second UnSub, or a victim?"

She kept her eyes trained on the window. "Reid has a theory, I'm sure. You'd have to ask him."

"I'm asking you," he replied tersely.

She glanced at him then, a quick look out of clear green eyes set in a tense face. "Are you really sure I'm qualified to answer that question?"

Hotch sighed. He had been pleasantly surprised with her performance thus far: she'd been carrying her weight, adding valuable insight to the case; but he sure as hell wasn't going to hold her hand as she withdrew into a private pity-party. "Do you think you single-handedly convinced a team of experienced profilers that their profile was wrong and that Lloyd Henry wasn't the UnSub?" he asked, voice harsh.

"Um." She pivoted toward him, surprised. "I don't know. It was my theory."

"Yes, Jackson: _theory_. And it was a good one, and at least partially right. Because it was a good theory, and because there was evidence to support it, we went with it. If you think your word alone convinced us all to abandon a solid profile that matched the evidence we had - that's pretty damn arrogant."

She gaped a moment before snapping her jaw closed and swallowing hard. "Um," she repeated dumbly. "Yeah. I guess it is. I hadn't thought of it that way. But, Agent Hotchner...I was wrong."

"Partially," he conceded. "Did you think you'd never be wrong? Were you never wrong at the CIA?"

"Well, no, of course not, but--"

"Why would this be any different? We call them theories because we test them. Sometimes they're right, sometimes they're wrong."

Nodding slowly, she turned her gaze back toward the window. "I guess I have a lot to learn."

"Of course you do," he replied, his tone softening a little. "But you've got time."

They'd arrived at the theatre by then, and she looked over at him with a wry, self-deprecating tilt to her lips as she reached for the door handle. "I guess admitting you have a problem is the first step, right?"

His mouth flickered in an almost-smile, but before he could reply his phone rang. Dark brows drew together as he read the caller ID display. "Morgan," he told her. "Hotch," he said, answering it.

"Hotch, man, something's goin' down. J.J. and I are out here talkin' to the girls on the street, and they said they saw Henry out here last night, and he picked up a girl."

"What? Hang on, I'm putting you on speaker," Hotch snapped into the phone. "He's got a cop sitting on him. How'd he shake the tail?"

"No idea, man, but they're sure. They said he went off with a girl he used to visit a lot before he took up with Lacey."

"Tanya?" Jackson demanded, her face going pale.

"Tanya, yeah. How'd you know?"

"Reid and I talked to her yesterday. She's the one who told us about Henry and Lacey. Shit, I told Henry we talked to her!" She slumped back in the black leather seat, burying her face in her hands. She'd been so sure about Henry! She'd told him about Tanya, and now the woman could be in pieces just like Lacey. Her death would be on Jackson, no matter what anyone said.

"There's more," Morgan was saying. "I heard from Garcia. The ad was paid for in cash, so she couldn't trace it, but she found something else. Henry owns the theatre."

"This theatre?" Hotch asked, glancing out the window.

"Yep. Garcia says he bought it about three months ago, and since then he's applied for several construction permits. He's poured a ton of money into that place, Hotch."

The more Morgan spoke, the graver Hotch's face grew. "You and J.J. head to Henry's place. I want to know if he's there. If he's not, tear it apart; I want to know every single detail of his life, understand?"

"Got it. What about you two?"

"It looks like this theatre is more important than we thought. We're there now. Call Gideon when you get to Henry's; tell him everything you just told us."

"We're on it. Be careful, Hotch. This whole thing stinks."

"You're tellin' me," the senior agent replied grimly before hanging up. Hotch and Jackson sat in silence for a moment, considering the building before them. "Morgan said Henry's been spending a lot of money fixing the place up, but it looks pretty run down to me," he remarked.

"All the improvements must be on the inside. Important, I'm sure, but odd. And, look no handicap ramp." She pointed to the sweeping front staircase that led to the theatre's only visible entrance. "Any building remodeled since 1991 has to be made to comply with ADA codes. He's remodeled, but it's not up to code on the outside. He obviously has no intention of using it as a public theatre any time soon."

Hotch nodded slowly, studying the building. "You and Reid think Lacey's murder wasn't part of their plan, correct?"

"Yes."

"Henry's wife kicked him out six months ago, but he only bought this building three months ago."

"They both would have been angry at the forced relocation, but perhaps Brady, as the actual killer, more so," she said, picking up his thoughts by instinct, not special ability.

"Henry bought this place to convert it into a new kill nest for Brady."

"But he couldn't wait, so he killed Lacey and sent the newspapers to the cops. How does _Endgame_ fit into this? Henry had to've placed that ad before Lacey's murder."

"I don't know," Hotch said musingly. "Let's get inside and find out."

"Should we call for backup? Henry and Brady could be in there with Tanya."

Hotch nodded and spoke quickly into his radio, summoning units to the theatre. "We can't wait for them. If it's empty, we will have sat around for nothing. Tanya might be in there alone. We have no idea."

"It's not their general MO to hold a girl."

He gave her a long look. "Lacey's murder was off the grid. We really have no idea what their MO is, do we?"

Suitably chastened, she smiled nervously. "Good point. Shall we go?"

* * *

_Hotch can be a hard-ass sometimes, but overall he's a really good guy, and a supportive boss. I knew Jackson would be upset about missing the Henry/Brady connection because she's just a perfectionist like that, but I also knew Hotch wouldn't have any patience with her self-flagellation. I tried to make the scene in the car a balanced mix between Hotch's natural instincts to look out for his team and his general impatience with Gideon's newest "project." It's a short scene in the overall, but I feel it's important, because while Reid and J.J. seemed to have accepted her very quickly, and Gideon obviously did, Hotch and Morgan are still very much on the fence._

_Please review me if you're enjoying! Thanks. :)_


	8. Life Rarely Imitates

**a/n**: First off, a big THANK YOU to **paper creations** for your kind, thoughtful review. I really like reviews that give me ideas, feedback, and insight into my own writing. :) (um, no idea why your name was left out of that sentence the first time... I typed it... oh, I think it's b/c of the period in the middle, so I left that out this time)

This chapter is much shorter than 7, and I'm trying to ratchet the tension level up a bit. Enjoy, and toss me a review if you like. :)

Also, if you're enjoying this story, you might want to check out my non-AU series of vignettes, "Just Breathe."

* * *

**Chapter 8: Life Rarely Imitates Theatre of the Absurd**

**From error to error, one discovers the truth.  
**- Sigmund Freud

Gideon and Reid rode in silence most of the way to Brady's apartment, each agent wrapped in his own thoughts. The city, just beginning to wake, sped by the windows, and Reid stared out at it, not really seeing anything. Gideon drove carefully as he always did, but he drummed his hands against the wheel, a sure sign that he was weighing something.

"Two UnSubs," Gideon finally said, breaking into the younger agent's thoughts.

"We don't know that for sure," Reid replied, a frown creasing his brow.

"I questioned Henry. I believed him. He's been leading us around this whole time," Gideon said ruefully.

"So you think Henry is Hamm?" Reid said as he turned toward his mentor.

"Yes." He ran a hand over his close-cropped hair as they sat at a stoplight. "Like you, I think Lacey's murder wasn't part of their plan. Brady decided to expose Henry, and Henry decided to end the game."

"Henry despises everything in his world, including himself. It's why he loses himself in the plays; they allow him escape," Reid reasoned. "Most of all he despises the part of him that can't stay away from prostitutes, but he's too weak to kill them himself."

"Like how Hamm is too weak to kill himself, even though he longs for death," Gideon agreed, accelerating as the light turned green.

"So he recruited Brady to do it for him. But what ties them together? Why won't Brady leave Henry, like Clov won't leave Hamm?"

"I don't know," Gideon admitted. "Hopefully we'll find something in Brady's apartment that will at least partially answer that question. Tell me, Spencer: what happens at the end of this play?"

Reid's mouth quirked. "Nothing. It's Absurdist, sir: Jack explained to me that nothing ever happens in Absurdist plays."

"Yes," he agreed, "that's the point. So, more accurately, what _doesn't_ happen?"

"Hamm doesn't die and Clov doesn't leave. They both remain. That's the last line of the play, in fact: 'You remain.' It's generally thought to be directed at the audience, though Hamm's speaking to his handkerchief, but still."

Gideon parked the big black SUV in front of Brady's building and sat quietly a moment, lost in thought. "Hhhmm," he said at last. "Somehow I think Henry's endgame is going to be a bit more final than Beckett's, don't you?"

"Life doesn't usually imitate Theatre of the Absurd," Reid said as he climbed out of the car.

Gideon shook his head, smiling, and followed the younger agent into the building.

* * *

"There're vests in the back," Hotch told her as they jumped out of the big car.

They donned the bulky vests, checked their weapons, and hurriedly approached the dilapidated building. "We have no idea what we're going to find in here," he reminded her. "Whatever happens, we stick together. Do you understand?"

She nodded. It wasn't her first hoedown, but he was the boss. "Yes, sir."

They started up the steps, but halfway up he stopped. "And no funny business," he said, gesturing toward his head.

She frowned indignantly. "My 'funny business' has proved invaluable in numerous--"

"Jackson," he huffed impatiently.

"Yes, sir," she replied, sulking a little. They reached the graffiti-covered double doors and hesitated. "Do we knock?" she asked softly.

He glared at her. Reaching out, he pushed against one of the doors. It was locked, of course. Padlocked with a chain. "The chain and padlock are new," Hotch observed.

"Yes. And heavy; we're not getting through those with our good looks and charming repartee."

This earned her another glare. "I doubt Henry wrestles with this chain every day. It would be too visible to the street, and it would take too much time, especially if he came here with Tanya. Let's look for another way in."

They circled the building, and in the back was a much smaller, less impressive door. The lock was smaller, too. "This one I can handle," Jackson told him. "It'll require a bit of funny business, but not the kind you were referring to earlier."

He eyed her askance, but comprehension dawned when she pulled out a set of lock picks. "What are you doing with those?" he demanded.

She grinned. "They teach you lots of useful skills at the CIA. Shall I? Or should we wait?" He considered briefly, but then nodded. She bent to her work, and in a few moments stood with a triumphant smile. "Easy peasy. He should invest in better locks for the back."

Hotch shook his head. "I'm going to pretend that didn't happen. Stay behind me, and for God's sake stay _quiet_."

Raising a brow at him, she fell in as he moved through the door. They didn't have their weapons drawn yet, but they both felt tense, and their adrenaline was pumping. Clearing her mind as best she could, Jackson tried to listen for any wayward minds in the building - especially Tanya's.

"Lloyd Henry," Hotch called out, his voice echoing in the empty, cavernous space, "this is Agent Hotchner and Dr. Jackson with the FBI. Show yourself."

Silence.

Despite the brightness outside, inside the theatre it was almost pitch black. The agents pulled their flashlights and allowed the points of light to penetrate the darkness. The beams showed brief flashes of a space as rundown and neglected as the exterior. It was as cold, silent, and dark as a tomb. Jackson shivered. "We should look for a basement," she whispered. "It would be more soundproof down there, and the money he spent must've gone somewhere."

Hotch nodded, still scanning the darkness. "Mr. Henry, we know about Tanya. We just want to talk to you," he said. Jackson's light flashed across something and Hotch reached back, stilling it. "There," he said as the beam illuminated an exit door.

They approached it slowly, and when the door swished open on silent, well-oiled hinges they exchanged knowing looks. Hotch pulled out his weapon and Jackson followed suit, and they cautiously descended into the depths.

* * *

Outside Lloyd Henry's apartment building Morgan tapped on the window of the police cruiser with a knuckle, and the cop inside nearly spilled his coffee in surprise. He rolled down the window, clearly irritated. "Can I help you, buddy?" he demanded.

Morgan displayed his credentials. "Yeah, I think so. Been pretty quiet so far?"

The guy snapped to attention, fumbling a little as he placed the paper cup in the car's holder. "I just got on a couple of hours ago, but so far nothin'. Here's the report from last night."

Morgan scanned the page quickly, and then he showed it to J.J. She shook her head, bright blond hair picking up the morning sun like a beacon on the gray street. "Nothing. If he skipped, he must've gone out the back."

"It couldn't really be that simple could it?" Morgan asked incredulously. Neither Gideon nor Reid had mentioned another entrance to the building, but that wasn't what they'd come for, so they might simply not've noticed. As for Jackson...well, Morgan's personal jury was still out on her. She didn't suck, but he didn't like unknown components on his team.

"Hey, look," the cop was saying as he leaned out the window, "is there a problem? Our guy's sittin' tight up there, snug as a bug in a rug."

"We've got witnesses who place him on the street last night," Morgan told him. "Our boss sent us over to check it out. You wanna head up with us, or stay out here?" It always paid to play nice with the locals.

"On the street? Ain't possible." He frowned, stroked a well-trimmed salt-and-pepper beard. "Let's go check it out. I'll call it in."

Morgan nodded. "We'll wait for you inside. Cold as shit out here."

The cop grunted in appreciation. "Got that right. Gimme five."

Morgan and J.J. headed inside where they confirmed that the building had only one entrance. "It was dark last night," J.J. said. "No moon. Everyone here wears thick coats, hats, scarves; it's easy to disguise yourself without even trying."

Before Morgan could reply, the uniform from outside joined them. "I'm Agent Morgan and this is Agent Jareau," Morgan told him.

"Klontz," he offered with a nod.

"Alright, Officer Klontz, let's see if our boy's at home." The three took the stairs quickly, and Morgan pounded on Henry's door with a closed fist. "Lloyd Henry, FBI and Detroit P.D. Open up!"

Klontz shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. "Look, our guy watched him all night--"

"No one's blaming you or your department, Officer," J.J. said. "Henry is more than any of us suspected."

"J.J., call Detective Jurczak. See if he can rush a warrant. We gotta get in there," Morgan told her.

She nodded and stepped away to make the call, and only a few moments passed before she returned. "He's on the way. He said he knows a sympathetic judge. Let's go grab the super so we're ready for him."

"No way," Morgan said. "I'm not waiting. Hotch and Jack are at that theatre now; they need what we find in here."

"I'll go get the super," Klontz said, hurrying away.

It wasn't long before Morgan, J.J., and Officer Klontz were standing inside Lloyd Henry's meticulously clean apartment. "Wouldja look at this place?" Klontz said. "I've seen operating rooms messier."

"Yeah, fits the profile. Our boss mentioned it before," Morgan said, scanning the room with concentration. He noted what the other team members had noticed yesterday: the obsessive order, the generic artwork, the furniture that looked brand new, the cork board covered in ticket stubs.

"Wow. He went to a _lot_ of plays," J.J. said, shaking her head. "All closing nights, you think?"

"No," Morgan said, jaw tense, "I think he saved closing nights for the murders. They were special to him. Look." He pointed to the board. "There's a ticket for _Hamlet_, but it's not a stub. He really didn't go."

"Jesus. Agents, get a load of this," Klontz said as he opened the coat closet. It was full of coats, all right, but not Henry's. The closet contained ten matching, brand new, perfectly aligned women's coats. They still had the tags. Something about the sight, so cold, so clinical, was desperately unnerving.

Morgan and J.J. stood staring, matching expressions of horror and comprehension dawning on their faces. "These must be like the coat he gave Lacey," J.J. said at last.

"He said he gave a coat to some of the other girls, too," Morgan said, voice gone cool with anger. "God damn it," he swore. "The coat. That's how Brady knew which girl to kill. That's why he asked Janet if she were one of 'Lloyd's girls.' She must not've had a coat yet. I've gotta call Gideon."

* * *

_Ohhh noes! Hotch and Jack close in on the UnSub(s?); Gideon and Reid push papers; J.J. and Morgan battle evil coat closets...what's next for our heroes?! Tune in to Chapter 9 to find out. ;)  
_

_Review me if you're having fun. :)  
_


	9. Fin de Partie

**a/n**: This chapter is the last "official" chapter of the story, but I leave a lot of loose threads dangling at the end, so I'll be following up with a epilogue, just to get everything squared away.

Thanks again to **paper creations**! I really appreciate your encouragement, and I'm glad you've come around to liking Elliot. :)

Please be kind: review me, whether you like the story or not.

* * *

**Chapter 9: _Fin de Partie_**

**The guilty one is not he who commits the sin, but the one who causes the darkness.  
**- Victor Hugo

The basement walls were solid concrete, but at least the flick of a light switch provided a steady fluorescent glow and they were able to stow their flashlights. A long, narrow hallway offered several closed doors along its length, and Jackson and Hotch shared a rueful glance. Plenty of places for two UnSubs to hide, the look said.

They pressed their backs together and made their slow way down the corridor. The first door was on Hotch's side, and he kicked it in with ease. The room proved to be a narrow, empty closet.

Jackson, though small at only 5'3" , handled the first door on her side with little trouble as well. She stepped just inside a dark room and scanned it quickly before pronouncing it clear.

Another door on Hotch's side: empty.

Jackson's next room: empty.

One more door loomed, and both agents braced themselves, sure that trouble waited behind the final panel. Hotch pushed it open, and they burst through, weapons ready. They scanned the room, tensed for danger, but it, too, was empty.

"That was rather anticlimactic," Jackson remarked, relaxing her stance but not holstering her weapon.

"No kidding," Hotch replied with a frown, turning a circle in the center of the room. "I was expecting...something."

"Did we miss a door?"

"I don't think so. Maybe we missed something upstairs?" he wondered, starting toward the door.

"It was really dark," she said, stating the extremely obvious.

"True," he replied, voice heavy with irony. He frowned, stepped closer to the wall, examining the poured concrete. "I guess now we know where all the money went." He turned to her. "Tanya could be down here somewhere. We should look more carefully."

"He has this basement for a reason," she agreed.

His back was to the door, and all the hinges were very well cared for, so it was only natural that he didn't hear anything even so close. He saw her face change, though, a minute tightening of muscles under smooth skin, a change so tiny that only someone trained as he was would have noticed it. He tensed instantly, but something about the look she gave him told him to stay still, don't move, whatever you do _don't fucking move_. He wondered inanely if she were using some sort of mind whammy on him, but then decided that he didn't give a damn if it meant the difference between his blood being safely in his body where it belonged or pooled out on the concrete floor, like Lacey's in that alley.

"I told you we had company," a voice said. Hotch recognized Lloyd Henry, and he closed his eyes briefly, cursing himself. "Don't you want to say hello to our company?" Henry was saying.

Jackson still had her weapon in hand, a black gun in a dark, dark room. Henry hadn't seen it yet, and he hadn't seen Hotch, and she wanted to keep it that way. She kept her eyes on him, concentrating all her attention on his face, not daring to look away.

"I'm sorry," Henry told her. "She's shy."

"She?" Jackson croaked through a throat suddenly gone desert dry.

Henry presented what he was holding, and it was all she could do not to shriek at the sight of Lacey Middleton's severed head cradled in Lloyd Henry's loving arms. Hotch saw the alarming change on her face, the sudden pallor, the greenish tinge, and a terrible, sick feeling washed over him.

"Oh, Lloyd," Jackson whispered, "what have you done?"

"Me?" he said, sounding genuinely puzzled. "I didn't do it. Josh did. He did it for me. I just wanted her to be with me forever."

"But, Lloyd, you told me you cared for her. Josh hurt her. He sliced her throat and cut her into pieces. Look at her, Lloyd; that's not the woman you cared for."

He looked down at the head, his face a hideous parody of affection. "She's so beautiful," he cooed. "Isn't she beautiful?"

Hotch shifted just a little, hoping to turn toward them, but he was too close. Henry's head snapped up, and Jackson coughed to cover the sound. "I'm sorry, Lloyd. This basement is cold. Can we go upstairs?"

His blue eyes narrowed. "You didn't come here alone. I heard you. Where's Agent Hotchner?"

She blinked at him innocently. "We split up. I'm not sure where he is. You didn't see him?"

"You're very pretty," Henry said, stepping closer. "Your features don't quite match, do they? That's what makes your face interesting. You have an _interesting_ face. An audience would enjoy looking at that face, I think."

"Thank you, Lloyd," she said, trying her best to smile. "Why don't you put, um, Lacey down so we can talk more comfortably?"

"I thought you'd be perfect as Eliza Doolittle."

"Oh really?"

"Yes, definitely. Can you do a cockney accent?" He was moving steadily closer, and as he spoke Hotch shifted, moving his hand toward his holster. He felt like an idiot for putting his weapon away, but he would flog himself over it later.

"Um, maybe. I don't know. Do you think _My Fair Lady_ or _Pygmalion_? I've always been a fan of Shaw. Do you like _Saint Joan_?"

Henry's eyes went so wide she could see the whites all around, even in the pale light from the hall. "You know Shaw?" he gasped.

"Oh, yes," she told him. "I know Beckett, too. Tell me, Lloyd. Why _Endgame_?"

He chuckled, smiling slyly. "Oh, that was clever, wasn't it? I got Josh here! He came straight here when he saw me pick up Tanya last night."

Jackson frowned. "I don't understand. Tonight's closing, right? I mean, it _would_ be."

"Yes," Henry confirmed, "but I always take the girl to the show the night _before_ closing, then Josh collects her for me when _I_ go on closing. So I picked Tanya up last night, and Josh was going to collect her tonight. Only he can't. I already collected her!"

Her eyes flicked toward Hotch, a barely perceptible movement. "Is Tanya...like Lacey, Lloyd?" she asked carefully.

"Oh, no, not yet," he said carelessly. "Maybe I won't keep her. She's not as _interesting_ as you. I could stare at you for a long, long time."

His words chilled her more than she would ever admit to anyone, and she held herself tight, struggling not to shudder. He was looking at her like a bug under a microscope, and she did _not_ want to hear his thoughts. Henry was unarmed, and Hotch was standing _right fucking there_, but she felt fear creeping up her spine on tiny, icy mouse feet. She opened her mouth, searching for words, struggling to find something, anything to say that would keep him talking and give Hotch more time, but her mind felt leaden with sudden terror and revulsion, and she couldn't make a sound.

Sensing some change in his newest agent, realizing some event horizon had been reached within her, Hotch knew it was time to act. "That's enough, Henry," he said, pressing his weapon against the side of the man's neck.

Jackson, breaking free from her paralysis as quickly as she had fallen into it, raised her weapon, pointing it at Henry's chest. "Put her down, Lloyd," she said, her voice soft and deadly. "Put her down, or I swear I will shoot your ass right now."

His face suddenly pale and glistening with sweat, Henry slowly bent, placing Lacey's head carefully on the concrete floor. Hotch cuffed him before he straightened, reading him his rights in a tight, efficient tone.

"Is Brady here, Lloyd?" Jackson demanded, holstering her weapon.

He glared at her. "He's going to take her," he said. "He's going to take her and it won't be for me! He'll do it for himself."

"I think that's the least of your problems," Hotch said. "Are Tanya and Brady in this building?"

Letting out a petulant sigh, Henry nodded. "There's a trapdoor in the closet down the hall. I'll show you."

"Yes, you will," Hotch confirmed grimly, leading him out into the corridor. Henry indicated the closet Hotch had first opened, and with a thrust of his head pointed out a small switch that almost completely blended into the wall. In their tense, nervous state, the two agents had missed it.

"Brady's in there with Tanya?" Jackson asked in a low voice.

"Yes," Henry said. "You should hurry."

"Jackson, take Henry upstairs. I'll go get Tanya," Hotch told her.

"No way," she replied instantly. At his look, she shook her head stubbornly. "You said we weren't to split up, and you were right. What if I had been alone in that room? Or if you had? It could've been messy. We're going up together, and then we're coming back down together. Hopefully with backup."

His expression showed exasperation, but she thought she caught a gleam of growing respect in his dark, hooded eyes. "Alright," he said at last. "Hurry up."

They ascended quickly, and just as they reached the theatre's back entrance, Hotch's phone rang. Leaving one hand on Henry, he reached for it. "Hotch." A pause as he listened. "Gideon, we're still at the theatre. We've got Henry; he says Brady is here with Tanya." Another pause. "How long?" He glanced back at Jackson. "Good. We'll wait for you." He hung up and holstered his phone. "Reid and Gideon are on their way. They'll be here in just a minute."

She relaxed a fraction. "Excellent. Let's hope the Detroit P.D. is as timely in their response."

Jackson wasn't disappointed: as they rounded the building, police cars were pulling up. As Hotch had requested, their lights and sirens were turned off, but they were _moving_. A door opened and Detective Steen, Jurczak's partner, tumbled out.

"Agent Hotchner, Dr. Jackson. I see you found our lost boy!"

"Oh yeah," Jackson agreed, "and he has been up to _no_ good."

After handing Henry off to an officer, Hotch filled the detective in on what they'd seen inside the building, and what Henry had told them. Steen rubbed his balding white head in consternation. "Jesus H.R. Christ. What a clusterfuck. We goin' in?"

"As soon as Gideon and Reid get here. That should be them now," he said, nodding toward the black SUV pulling up behind the barricade of blue and whites.

The two agents hurried over, donning vests as they came. "Hotch, Jack, Detective," Gideon greeted them shortly. "From what Henry told Agents Hotchner and Jackson, there's a woman's life at stake here," he said to Steen. "We need to move quickly. Let's take a small team, go in fast. I don't want any bullets flying unless the UnSub makes a direct threat to the hostage or to one of us. Ok?"

Steen nodded. "Sounds good to me. Three of my guys, your team. Let's hit it."

"Hotch, Jack, you've been in there. Take point."

Without further ado they were off, weapons out and pointed toward the sidewalk. They rounded the building, hit the back door, and made their cautious way through the darkened theatre. They took the stairs in teams of two, keeping low, and Hotch and Jack both called an all clear as they hit the bottom.

"Cover me," Hotch said into his radio as he moved toward the closet. The team arrayed behind him, weapons pointed at the small, unassuming room. He reached in and flipped the switch, raising his weapon as the back wall began to swing open. All was silent and dark.

"Joshua Brady!" Hotch called into the space. "FBI and Detroit P.D.! Release the woman and come out now!"

Silence again, in a strange repeat of earlier events.

Hotch and Jackson exchanged a wordless glance, and they both began to inch forward, shining their lights into the dark space. They had only gone a few feet when she held up a hand, halting the team's progress. "Did you hear that?" she whispered to Hotch.

He narrowed his eyes, listening hard, and after a second he nodded. "Tanya," he breathed.

"Tanya, can you hear me?" Jackson called. "My name is Elliot Jackson. I talked to you yesterday, out on the street. I'm here to help you. Make a noise if you can. We're going to help you." There was another whimper, louder this time, and a strange sound like something muffled hitting metal. The rest of the team fanned out behind them, shining their lights around the room.

"There," Gideon called, his beam illuminating the far wall and a bizarre tableau.

"What in the name of all that's holy...?" Steen murmured, mouth agape.

"_Endgame_," Reid said. "He staged it after all. That must be Brady."

The man propped against the wall must, indeed, be Brady, but he was quite dead. He was tied to a ladder, Clov's ladder from the play, and his throat was slit like a red, gaping grin below his chin. A wheelchair sat in the center of the scene, empty, awaiting Henry's return. Two trashcans were set against the back wall. On one was a severed head in a shabby old wig.

"Nell," Jackson said, illuminating the head with her light. Hamm's mother, as played by one of Henry and Brady's victims.

Tanya was in the other bin, alive but bound. She, too, wore a wig, this one in a man's style. "Nagg," Reid said, shaking his head. Hamm's father.

"Why are we just...?" Angrily, Jackson shoved her weapon into its holster and rushed toward Tanya. "Are you hurt?" she asked softly, pressing a hand against the girl's shoulder a moment before carefully untying her. What she saw when she touched Tanya's skin made her flinch, but she kept her gaze steady.

Gideon and Hotch joined them a moment later and helped her pull the girl from the large trash bin. Her legs were so cramped she couldn't stand, so Hotch carried her from the room as Gideon called for a medic.

Elliot was left standing in the center of Henry's sick tableau, surrounded by cops but feeling alone. "'No one that ever lived ever thought so crooked as we,'" she quoted softly. Shaking her head, she turned away, walking slowly from the room and the basement to join the rest of her team above ground.

* * *

_Before I forget...thanks to Courtney and her query of, "Why do so many people keep severed heads in their fridges?" for the inspiration here. I did it just for her!_

_Some reviews going into the very end ending would be lovely, my dear readers. :)_


	10. Epilogue: Above Ground

**a/n**: Just tying up loose ends here. I created a rather ridiculously complex case, so I felt like I needed a "summary" somewhere. Here ya go, for those playing the home game...

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**Epilogue: Above Ground  
**

**One may not reach the dawn save by the path of the night.**  
- Kahlil Gibran

"Only someone as obsessive as Lloyd Henry would devise a system so complex," Reid observed as they were together again settling down on the plane for the flight back to DC.

"Find a prostitute, become a regular, give her a coat. That was Brady's signal to start following her. When Henry took her to a show, that was the signal to kill her the next night," Morgan summarized.

"The closing nights, of course, being the murder nights," Hotch said.

"Henry had Brady kill the women so he could 'keep' them. He had all their heads. It wasn't just about the relationships, though. He also liked casting them in different shows," Reid continued.

"Crazy shit," Morgan said succinctly. "And all a bit too elaborate for a poacher with a temper," he continued, tossing a quick glance in Jackson's direction.

"Indeed," Gideon agreed.

"His system was so complicated because he had to be sure each woman was absolutely perfect before he added her to his collection," Reid said. "Otherwise he'd be stuck with, ah, 'flawed merchandise.'"

"Ew," J.J. commented.

Reid shrugged, face scrunching. "Not my point of view."

"So why _Endgame_?"

"He liked the symmetry of it; Brady was his Clov, and he decided to kill Brady like the girls to keep him the same way. That way Brady could never leave. He wanted to surround himself in what he held dear, the same way Hamm did. The symmetry of it was perfect for him," Reid explained.

Jackson shook her head and tuned out their conversation. Her eyes roamed the beige interior of the plane restlessly for a moment until she realized Hotch had been gazing at her steadily for the past several minutes. "Can I help you, sir?" she asked.

He rose and moved to the unoccupied seat beside her, but for a time he said nothing. She sat looking at him, her expression politely curious. He clearly had something he needed to say, but she could wait. "In the basement," he began at last.

"Yes?" she prompted.

"Before we went inside, I gave you an order. I was just wondering..." He trailed off awkwardly. Frowning, he looked away, out the window, around the plane, anywhere but at her.

"I didn't use my ability on you or Henry, sir," she told him quietly. "I thought about it. I could have used it to calm him a little, or distract him from your presence, but you told me not to. Also, I wanted to prove to myself that I could handle the situation without it."

His dark gaze settled on her at last, and his expression softened a little, his mouth flickering upward briefly. "At the risk of sounding condescending, I'm proud of you. You did well in there. You kept your cool in a tough situation, and the UnSub was apprehended without anyone else getting hurt."

"With all due respect, Agent Hotchner," she said, smiling thinly, "I'm new to the Bureau, but I'm no rookie. That wasn't my first talk-down." She didn't tell him about that moment of near-panic, that instant where, if he had hesitated any longer to act, things might have gone very, very differently. He didn't need to know; it was her own darkness to delve.

He looked slightly taken aback, but after a moment he let out a small chuckle. "I'm sorry, Dr. Jackson. Of course." There was another pause, then, "You know, 'Jack' is my son's name."

She cocked her head, giving him a quizzical look. "So you said."

"The rest of the team seems to have taken to the nickname, though."

"Yes."

"Maybe I could call you 'E.J.;' we have a 'J.J.,' but I doubt she'd mind."

Now it was her turn to be taken aback. After a stunned moment, she laughed brightly, the sound causing heads to turn in their direction. "Yes, ok. Maybe I'll actually start calling you Hotch," she said.

"I'd like that. It's what my team calls me."

She smiled with genuine warmth. "So you said," she repeated softly. She let out a long breath and glanced out the window, then back at him. "I appreciate...your criticism. I know that sounds odd, but it helped."

"I meant what I said. You're not perfect, so don't expect to be."

"That's the problem, isn't it? I _do_ expect perfection. It's just...who I am. Honestly, is it that wrong?"

"No, not in and of itself. The problem comes when the pressure is too much. This job is enough pressure; don't add to it by being so hard on yourself."

"That's your job, right?"

A charming dimple emerged in his cheek, and she wondered if three smiles from him in five minutes was some sort of record. "Something like that. I'll let you get some rest," he said before rising and moving away.

Shaking her head in wonderment, Jackson was about to open her book when she looked up to see another visitor standing by the empty seat next to her. Her lips curved warmly. "Reid," she invited, "join me?"

He smiled back awkwardly and sat down. "Um, so, I've been thinking," he began.

"Have you?" she replied teasingly.

He ducked his head, tucking a lock of hair a few shades lighter than her own behind his ear. "Yeah. Not philosophy."

"No," she agreed.

"Or literature."

"No."

"Ancient history," he said, looking up and meeting her gaze, "with a focus on religious texts and ritual. Also ancient languages with a focus on religious folklore. You're right; I never would've guessed."

Her clear green eyes narrowed. "You had Garcia run a background check."

He squirmed a little. "You've read my file!" he accused.

"Duh. I'm a spook. What do you think I do for a living?"

"You're a behavioral analyst with the BAU," he replied, lips twisting.

"Oh. Right. Silly me. I should probably quit with the spy stuff, but old habits die hard. I guess that's Garcia's excuse for running a background check on me," she said wryly.

He looked innocent. "I guess so." He fiddled with his watchband a moment. "Why such a focus on religion?" he asked.

"I don't know. It's interesting." Jackson looked out the window a moment, watching the sunlight play off the clouds. "I don't believe in God," she told him. She pressed her fingers against the window, enjoying the cold of it. "I want to understand why people do. Not our modern ideas; that's so tiring. I want to know what ancient man thought when he looked at the sky. I want to know how he explained the sun and the moon and the stars. It's so much more beautiful than 'on the third day...'"

She turned back to him, shrugging. "It's nothing against modern religion. I just don't believe it. Anyway. I guess I owe you lunch."

"Nah. I cheated."

"No," she said, grinning. "I don't mind. I just said you couldn't read my file; I didn't mention Garcia's powers of detection. Pick the places; I'll be there."

"I guess, um, a bet's a bet," he said, fidgeting again, jaw working.

"If the idea of having lunch with me for a week is that unappealing..."

"No, not at all! No, I mean it sounds great. Fun. You can tell me all about ancient folklore."

She laughed. "We could meet in the middle and talk philosophy," she suggested.

"Philosophy it is," he said, smiling. "So...I guess I'll see you at lunch."

"See you there," she said. He rose to go, and she tossed him a quick, laughing wave.

Alone at last, Jackson was finally able to dive into her book, but she couldn't concentrate. She was, she realized, a member of the BAU. Her life at the Agency was over, and her new life at the Bureau had begun. Looking out the window at the sun-washed clouds, she couldn't help but smile. Nasty cases or not, the future seemed pretty bright.

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_Yay, done in 10!! I hope you've enjoyed the ride. I've already begun writing a sequel, so if you liked what you've read (or even if you haven't, but why did you read the whole story in that case??), please review me!_


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